Incomplete
by WynterVivaldi
Summary: Two broken selves will indefinitely find hope in each other. E/C, rating to be advised. Post POTO movie with Leroux overtones.
1. Too Long You've Wandered In Winter

Hello everyone :D I am in the midst of writing this story, like the rest I have high hopes I will finish this! I think eventually I will, seeing how I have actually completed the introductory part for this and am not writing as I feel like compared to the rest. For this, my writing has improved I think. And it has changed drastically from the past. If you must know, I suffered a tad bit of heartbreak and depression and found music and art again in myself. In the midst of my busy life, writing this is technically a breath of fresh air I force myself to take time and again lol. Thank you for reading this! I hope all my past readers don't have a bad impression of me? Please? /grins at you hopefully and goes off to bake Erik shaped cookies/

I present to you my untitled work~

* * *

**INCOMPLETE**

_People are like stained - glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within._

_Elisabeth Kubler-Ross _

**Paris. Two weeks after the Opera Fire**

Life. It was almost a thing that he could really crush in his fingers, an object like a candle so easily snuffed out. In the gloomy darkness, a tall figure stalked amongst the remains of the place he had called home for almost twenty years of his solitude. Brought there when he was but a mere seven years of age, he had lived his solitary life in tears. Now nearing his thirties, the sprightly figure looked around at the shattered glass and charred remains of disuse and hatred, of the mob that had ravished and ransacked him home coldly in the hours following the fire at the Populaire.

He heaved a heavy sigh, turning his eyes towards the dark portcullis, where he had last lashed that insufferable boy to, only to let him go with his love, his angel who he would never have.

Her name was like gilded honey on his lips as he let out a shaky breath and sat heavily on the swan bed where he had last seen her, and touched her, his goddess of song. And she had pressed the ring he had slipped onto her fingers, back into his calloused palm, almost a rejection of him! No, it certainly was. There was no way such an ethereal creature could love this repulsive beast that he was, never. And yet, the last final look she had thrown him as she stood behind that useless fop…His heart skipped a beat and wrenched itself into endless knots. Damn that boy and his perfect looks and mannerisms, to waltz into his life and steal away his angel! Granted, they probably had a history dating back since her birth, and yet he could not reconcile himself to the fact that Christine, his Christine was gone.

Or was she?

The church bells could be tolling for her death, for all she could care about. All she thought of was the promise she had left him. Would he understand? Would he comprehend, in his rage? Was that smile he left with her a lie? She could see it all again, his rage, the Populaire destroyed. The demons of his soul that haunted him since birth with his "abhorrent face", the weight of a thousand things upon him. And yet… All she could dream of was the fire that burned in his eyes, burned through her soul, saw her clear and pure and whole, and made her ache, so much for a soul long irreparable as the world should perceive him. Heavens above, she was to be married soon! And to her childhood best friend! Raoul had thought it best to protect her as such, claiming it was a promise of sorts made to the Phantom, to protect her from a life on the run with him…

It could not end like this! Already she was miserable with the meeting of his family or what was left of it, seeing that both his father and older brother were deceased and he was but left with a senile old mother that would shriek as she came close, claiming that she reeked of Death.

Perhaps then, she did, having spent so much time being surrounded by it. Perhaps she did, for her heart belonged to the one that they claimed had the mask of death on him.

She shook her head, clearing the thought of those clear, grey-green eyes with their piercing, fiery gaze…Her husband to be exited the priest's room, giving thanks to the priest and God the Abba Father and making small talk to the priest. She wanted to retch, to cry, for her heart, and for this man whom she would never, ever belong to. Silently she bowed her head in reverent prayer, praying to a God she never understood, praying for forgiveness of her heart and soul, and for a man she loved.

Raoul sat in silence in the carriage beside Christine, looking over at the auburn haired female that sat beside him. Of all the females in the country, he had picked her and yet, instead of being the happy, loving fiancée he had expected her to be, she had been sullen, withdrawing from his touches after he had proposed to her. She had accepted, certainly, but he could see the sadness in her eyes, her longing for only one singular man, no, monster.

He could still hear it, the ringing in his ears, the night of the fire, the Populaire crashing down around them in heaps, the pandemonium as it erupted around them and he dashed down into the endless depths of hell…He was sure that that monster had cast a spell over his lovely young bride-to-be, to steal her soul and body whole. He was sure he had ravished her, as from the endless rumors of she being the Phantom's whore, of her spreading her legs like a common ballet rat…He shook the thought away, no, such an innocent creature like Christine would never be swayed by such a dark creature, repulsive and hated.

~X~

**Three months after the Opera fire**

She had returned to the cemetery, now ablaze in the deepest hues of red and orange while tinged in green. Holding the same roses, as she always had to place at her father's grave, she regretted his presence. The last time she had come, he had taken the place of the driver. She had known, but had said nothing, wanting him nearby her as she had taken the long walk to her father's grave.

She had felt calm, knowing her Angel was near. Now that he was not around, Christine felt the chill of the autumn seeping into the very core of her bones, almost wanting to break down and cry. She said a silent prayer as she walked, for her Angel and for her father, and for Mamma Valerius, recently deceased. She thought of the three angels that had left her, sobbing softly for her Angel, her masked Angel and the Phantom, after she had received news in the Époque that he was dead. Trying to curb the feeling surging in her heart, she pressed forth, lying at the foot of her father's grave to silently sob.

"Father, I am so sorry!" Tears coursed down her alabaster smooth cheeks, the leaves rustling beneath her skirts. "The Angel you sent me…and I killed him…I killed him, and now I shall kill another with…with my fickle senseless heart! Oh Father, if only, if only you would give me a second chance! Hear my cry, for **I truly loved him!** If only, if only…"

The black cloaked figure standing behind the coffin in her father's crypt shifted. Did he just hear Christine admit her love for him?

**No!**

It had to be a lie. She couldn't love him! Not after what he had done! He shook his head violently; holding back as she continued in pleading that she may see her Angel again. What lies he had published in the papers was for her sake. She would be better with the Vicomte, her insufferable lover and fop. He would care for her and treat her as the Princess she had always wanted to be, a life full of glitz and glamour and being preened and pimped and showed off at parties like his prized possession…He gritted his teeth in frustration and got up, intending to leave before Christine could even enter the crypt to rearrange the objects inside…

Too late.

For she was staring at him with her wide doe-like eyes, stifling a gasp as she rushed forth to embrace him, tears streaming down her cheeks. He looked down at her slim fingers, and found himself puzzled. Was she not yet that insufferable fop's wife? He had painstakingly procured a copy of the Époque day by day, and as such, had discovered of that boy's impending marriage to her. As to when, he never really found out, save for that it was sometime soon. As such, he had made plans to leave, but now…he couldn't! Yet he must. He steeled himself and pushed a very puzzled Christine Daae aside, whipping his cloak around him as he escaped into the night and away from her, melting easily into the shadows as he had always done.

~X~

Christine awoke at the Opera Populaire residences, which had been rebuilt in record time due to an unnamed lump sum of money suddenly entering the scene, although she and Madame Giry had a clear inkling of where such finances had come from. Erik! She suddenly recalled the events of the day before. And he had fled! She scrambled out of bed to find a long stemmed red rose, tied in his customary black ribbon. Beside it was a note, written in elegant script.

_Dear Christine Daae,_

_I fear for you, and your reputation. It is for the best, and for everything, that I have decided to leave you. However, I promise that I will continue to watch over you. Trust me, this is for the best. Make no attempt to see me again, for I assure you, ma Cherie, all your attempts will be in vain._

_I apologize for the horror that all my mannerisms has been thus far, and I apologize for the trouble I have caused you and your lover. As such, I will leave you in peace._

_Farwell, my dearest Angel._

_Yours,_

_Erik._

The simple scrawl brought tears to her eyes, pricking at her eyelids. Erik, so that was his name! Mon dieu, Erik, Erik, she wanted to scream, you lovable thing, I love you! Instead, bringing the parchment to her nose, she breathed in his spicy, exotic scent, clutching the paper to her breast as she fainted dead away.

~X~

Three months had passed since the chandelier disaster, and Christine still lingered in his heart like a barb embedded into his flesh eternally. He would never be rid of his love for her, even as he rode his horse across the wild mountains of Switzerland. The horse was jet black, aptly named Cesar as the horse he had originally procured for Christine the first day he had brought her to his lair. He passed through the wild ruins of the mountains, meeting with traveling fairs few and far wide, of which he assumed them to be gypsies. Fearing for him to be exhibited again or worse, turned into the authorities, he had dismounted upon catching wind of them, instead preferring to slink around in the darkness with the gangly beast he had stolen.

~X~

Christine knocked gently on the door to Madame Giry's apartments, feeling that she would go insane if she held in her feelings a moment longer. She was about to burst, and when the elderly, motherly ballet mistress opened the door, she collapsed in an undignified heap in her arms.

"Whatever can be the matter child, collect yourself!" Giry rebuked in a gentle yet stern tone.

Christine shook her head, her wild ringlets falling around her face.

"Madame, I can hold it no longer. I…killed Raoul de Changy."

Antoinette Giry let out a soft gasp. Christine, a gentle lamb, and killing? It could hardly be perceived in a sentence and yet this child had stated it so purely, so directly, like the day itself. The young girl in her arms began to sob again, and began to tell her tale.

"It was a stormy night, and two nights before my wedding. Raoul had entered the house drunk as a sailor, with his own set of wandering hands and foul mouths. He had almost forced himself on me, and I pushed him off me, setting off his fury. He set himself on me then, screaming about Erik and how he would kill him. In fear, I pushed him aside, and out of the house, Maman don't interrupt, I am not even sure of myself how I had performed such a feat. And the next day I found that he had died, the coroner claiming he had an aneurysm and a carriage had run him over…oh Madame, it was so horrifying…"

Christine had been reduced to a sobbing pile by this time, in hysterics as she clawed at the black skirt of Madame Giry, repeating over and over again how, if she had never been so fickle, Raoul would still be alive now…

Madame Giry sighed, and rang the bell for the maid, to get her two cups of tea. She settled the child before her, setting the tea before the other. In a hushed voice, she comforted her, before sliding a cream white envelope over the table to Christine.

The auburn haired girl opened the letter with trembling fingers. Another letter to her? What the hell could he be thinking?

_Dear Madame,_

_I leave Christine care of you. I am leaving Paris, France, and all my past transgressions. If you must know, I am heading to Salzburg to hone myself and forget the past._

_Thank you once more for your kindness these past years._

_Erik._

Christine looked at Madame Giry in shock, catching the twinkle in the older woman's eyes. "Maman…what could you be implying?"

"Go child, he is awaiting."

Erik had hoisted up the horse and tied it securely to the pole by the stables, before he wrapped his cowl around his neck and pulled the hood low over his eyes. He slid into the dark, enjoying the cold way it wrapped around him with reckless abandon, beckoning him to kill and slaughter without a thought again. A single line rang in his head, Christine's voice, filled of fear of him.

Damn it.

Cursing his weaker self, he stalked into the tavern at the side of the road, deserted and with but a single bartender inside, napping soundly. The man took one look at his strange guest as the bell chimed, and started at the dark figure looming in his doorway. Erik didn't flinch at the man's startled face, accustomed to the surprised look of men at his imposing, dark figure. He crossed the threshold with ease; his body sleek like a feral cat stalking its prey. Sliding a small moneybag across the counter, he requested supplies for a journey.

Blankets, food, water and basic necessities. The man, fumbling with the tie of the drawstring pouch, blinked at him out of his eyes, sunken into his pudgy face and hidden behind an unkempt handlebar moustache, nodding hurriedly as his greedy eyes flashed at the sight of the money in the bag. He returned soon with a bag of supplies, and Erik muttered a low thank you before stepping out of the door.

The poor man blinked, never coming to terms with what he had just witnessed, save for the fact that this strange customer of his was abnormally rich.

~X~

A man seated atop a crate in the dark alley leered at the prey below, his teeth set in a dark grin, hair unkempt and matted. He had been stalking this boy for the past few days, and finally had got his hands on him. That fateful night of rain and carriages, he had sent another of his brothers to hell, and probably would get much richer from this man alone. Said man coughed and rolled over in his slumber, crying out brokenly.

"Christine…Christine forgive me!"

The young blonde could hear the voice of her childhood friend in the sitting room. For unstated reasons, her mother had explicitly expressed a reason for her not to enter, instead to stay at the Populaire for ballet practice and for Christine not to see her. She blinked, peeking around the wall. Her mother had left, and she crept out to see her old friend again.

The girl herself was startled to see her long time friend, Meg, as she exited the room into the sitting room. Tucking her into a tight embrace, the girls shared a longing hug before they separated, Christine's eyes shining with slight tears. Meg noticed, and with a concerned gaze, she proceeded to extract the same story she had heard from eavesdropping from the auburn haired girl herself. With a resigned sigh as they heard the key in the lock and Madame Giry's return, Christine picked up the letter she had dropped on the floor as Meg rushed out of the back door and back to the Populaire. Madame's cane could be heard tapping on the floor, the smooth black cane Christine had known in her many years of being at the Populaire since her young age. That cane had struck fear in many hearts of the young ballet girls, training them into utter perfection of form and figure.

She rose from her seat to greet the elder, giving a wane smile, as she was about to leave.

"Maman, I can never thank you enough. I have made my decision."

Christine gave a confident smile, as the elderly Giry clutched the crucifix in her dress close to her, saying a silent prayer for the child leaving her to find her Angel.

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:'D Thank you for reading up til this point! Comments please~ Reviews make me happy.


	2. Guide and Guardian

Hello~ I am back with Chapter 2! I actually have this typed out til about Chapter Seven-ish and I don't intend on updating so fast. The only reason why I updated so fast is cuz I'm such a reviews addict. Be good and make this FIVE reviews? And more follows? Someone put me on alert? Pretty pleaseeeeeee~ l0l

You may scroll past all my rambling if you wish?

I promise to update faster if you do the above! And Erik will give you roses! What? Oh sorry, he says the roses are reserved for Christine. /begging Erik to satisfy the phans/ Sigh, at least he conceded to giving me a rose garden so that I can give you guys roses. He refuses to help though. Living his life 24/7 with Christine. Random fact: when I bought cappucino before choir the other day, I swear he was scolding me for drinking something so heavy and ruining my voice, which my friend said sounds like a noble visual kei singer's. Yup, your authoress is a fem!Kamijo.

Kamijo is from the band Versailles btw.

Thank you so much to The newbie phan and Grandma Paula! Your reviews make me happy beyond belief!

/floats up to heaven as she died from happiness/

In here, we get to see the miserable fop kind of tortured. Yay~ Hmm hmm now that he is in this situation...I think after all this is said and done I surely will review and revise this story-I am in the midst of revising it as we speak. No, it is not ending at seven chapters, this is but the beginning! Along the way you will see references to POTO lyrics, as well as Notre Dame de la Paris songs and Louis-Enketsu no La Vie en Rose lyrics. Yes, I am a Versailles fan(aka Descendant of the Rose). What inspires me to write this is Within Temptation's A Demon's Fate, The Truth Beneath the Rose, Angels, Blue Eyes...Waga Routashi Aku no Hana from ALi PROJECT...its all the pretty Japanese songs and some English Symphonic Metal included l0l. Sorry for all my rambling, I'm just so happy. And with that I give you the fruits of this inspiration...Chapter two.

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Chapter Two

Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.

Maya Angelou

~X~

With the gracelessness not befitting a woman like her, Christine swung herself over the saddle of the dappled brown horse, dressed in a hunting crop she had procured from Raoul's closet. She gave a laugh to herself, her a thief like the Phantom. Erik would be pleased. Erik…she gave a sigh. His name itself led to a swell in her heart, his eyes, oh those eyes that both threatened and adored….

How she missed her musical voice! That rich, dark, seductive baritone that wafted around her, as gentle as a lamb and yet as rich and rollicking as the thunder that flashed across the sky in a thunderstorm, like those as they lived by the sea…

Mon Dieu.

Her fiancée had only been dead for a mere month or so, and she already was the whore they had labeled her to be, looking for a new man! Surely, she was no better than those common ballet rats with their endless frolics with the managers in the backstage wings, or with those stagehands. She shuddered, thinking of the worst, Joseph Buqet, common and brutish with a common stench of cheap alcohol and stinking brandy on his breath. And she had killed him indirectly, remembering a night, before Il Muto, praying in the chapel, where he had entered, having stalked her all the way down there, to leave her naked to the eye, almost taking her against her will on the hard cold floor. It was then that Erik had arrived, giving a threatening glare, pushing him out of the chapel and bringing her back to the dressing rooms.

And she remembered how she had lain in his arms, the cold leather against her skin, his cloak around her. She could just barely discern the faintest hint of a blush in his gruff voice, as he promised her safety. She giggled faintly to herself, riding on to Austria.

And the next day, Buqet had been dead.

Dead as a doornail.

She was pretty sure that that was a punishment for the grotesque lies of the Phantom he had told, for the night before. Suddenly, the happy thoughts left her, and almost seemingly seeing the blood of all that Erik had killed for her on her hands and deciding it was best to concentrate on the journey ahead, she pushed all thoughts from her head, spurring the horse on.

Erik was seated on the edge of the precipice, looking at the majesty of the Swiss Alps before him. Having been trapped in a dirty hut as a child, and then coldly sold to gypsies before being 'chained' in his own underground prison in the Opera Populaire, he had never seen the majesty of the world. Nor had he seen any semblance of love and mortality, nor anything of the outside world, except Christine's dark tales of the North, as she talked to him through the walls. That innocent child…He finally understood the idea of her Catholic God, the holy trinity and the Virgin Mother Mary, as he looked over the edge to the cities of Switzerland below. The view stole his breath away, and he could imagine the young Daae and her father, as they traversed these lands. How they could had made the acquaintance of that insufferable boy was still a mystery though.

Patting the nickering horse on the snout, he tied the stallion up and decided that the sunset was reason enough for him to rest on this long journey.

Night had fallen, and in the night, darkness prevails. Under the cloak of the night, a little boy of barely thirteen crept. His eyes shone like the moonlight, accustomed to the dark around him. A gypsy child no doubt, and he had been conditioned to thievery and lies. Spotting the finely dressed male propped against the tree, and with a fine stallion, cravat and clothes no doubt, he thanked Fortune for the windfall he had gotten and crept silently up to his prey…only to find himself trussed up in a trap, and the man stirring to face him with the clear green eyes of a cat.

Damn it.

Erik stirred at the rustling of leaves, having expected bandits and the like to loot him at his most vulnerable he had set a trap. His eyes refocused on the dark before him, finding a young scrawny child trussed up like a turkey ready to be roasted for Christmas dinner.

Then he did a very un-Erik like thing. He laughed. His dark gaze traveled over the pitiable form of the boy itself, chortling gently to himself as he gave a devilish smirk, cutting the trap down and making sure the boy had not made of with any of his possessions. Having done that, he let the child go, only to perhaps realize his folly in doing as such…for it would perhaps bring a brigand of those damned gypsies after him!

Scowling at his weakness that he had not just killed the child as he had done with every other inconvenience, he saddled his horse and rode off.

Christine emitted out a groan as she dismounted the horse. Days of riding had left her loins sore, and her back and whole body aching. And yet she had but barely passed the border into Switzerland. She wondered where Erik could be now, as she spotted a little band of merrymaking gypsies in the nearby clearing. Dismounting with as little grace as she had when mounting, she made her way over to them.

She herself was shocked at her own boldness, when she was in the Populaire she would perhaps have cowered away from them. But this set of people gave her the air of honest people, dealt a heavy blow from Fate themselves. Almost like Erik in regard, she mused, walking over to them.

A young boy casually sauntered up to her, a scrawny child of around twelve. With his gleaming eyes and tanned skin, she was reminded of another male, of another male who probably had the same fate as this child had, if not worse. She bent down to ask of his name, and all she got back was a saucy reply of "Miguel, my fair lady."

Upon inquiries, she found out that few travelers had been through these barren lands, yet one of the travelers he had described piqued her interest.

"…He was all scary ma'am, with that black around 'im. Was trussed like some turkey I was! He went that a way, ma'am, are you looking fer him? P'raps he be some unlucky man running away from a wedding, huh."

Miguel snorted at his own joke, trying to calm his nerves about the man that he had met the night before. Never had one induced such fear and horror into him, not even his uncle with the heavy whips. He remembered those haunted grey eyes that blazed into the very core of his soul…the boy shuddered, thinking if he were to sauce this woman any more, somehow he would meet an untimely end. Giving a vague point to his east, he nodded.

"That direction, ma'am."

Erik had been hiding in the hollows of the branches above, watching the band of gypsies, when his breath caught. A graceful swan had entered the company of ugly ducks, with her graceful, powerful dancer's body like a rose amongst thorns, a queen amongst her subjects…his queen. He would recognize that mass of auburn curls anywhere, tied in a low ponytail that exposed the graceful skin of her neck, which had browned slightly as she rode in this unforgiving sun. It was almost his undoing as he felt the temptation to slither down from his treetop vantage point, to scoop her into his arms and escape like the phantasmal creature of the night that he was. And yet he remembered her fear, her eyes, that confusion at the cemetery…Memories and emotions clouded his better judgment as he leapt across the trees, unsaddling his stallion and escaping.

Christine sat on the banks of the river, dipping her feet into the crystalline waters. It had been days since she last took a proper bath. Letting the cool waters slide over her bare skin, she hummed a song under her breath, and finding herself alone, she began to sing.

_Think of me,_

_Think of me fondly,_

_When we've said goodbye,_

Goodbye.

The word hung in the air like a pregnant silence. She had never ever said goodbye to any of those two. Erik…Raoul…she would never be able to decide. And she never had to, right? Since she was a child, her dark Angel, with his smooth melodious voice that soared over her and captured her soul wholly, had intrigued her endlessly. Skipping a few stanzas, she fondled a leaf carefully, smiling to herself.

_We never said,_

_Our love was evergreen_

_Or as unchanging as the sea…_

_But if you can still remember,_

_Stop and think of me…_

The aria from Hannibal, Chalmeau's pompous piece of work. And yet to Erik…how had he found he singing like that beautiful? She sighed, sloshing the water slowly over her shoulders.

_Think of all the things we've shared and seen,_

_Don't think about the way things might have been_

_Think of me, _

_Think of me waking,_

_Silent and resigned,_

_Imagine me, _

_Trying to hard to put you from my mind…_

_Recall those days,_

_Look back on all those times_

_Think of the things we'll never do…_

_There will never be a day…_

_When I won't think __**of you!**_

She threw out the last note, her voice cracking, as she gathered up her towel and her soap, exiting the river. Her clothes hung on a branch, and she tugged them down and pulled them on, only for her eyes to meet a pair of familiar, green eyes.

Erik. The very one she had been singing to.

Erik perched in the tree, like a panther across the branches, watching Christine.

It was almost perverted, the way that he watched her, creeping silently. At first, he had only meant it for her safety, but he had found himself inexplicably drawn to her voice.

Certainly, he told himself, she must be singing for that boy.

And yet when she sang that line…

_Don't think about the way things might have been…_

Her glance heavenward…no…into the trees…did she suspect that he was there? Could she see him watching? His breath caught, and he descended silently as his escape, only to find himself behind her clothes…and then meeting her eyes.

"Christine."

Raoul sat up with a start. He was sitting in this foreign bed, with these foreign sheets… A cackle came from the darkened corner, and he could all but make out the visage of a man, a scrawny, rumpled fool. Yet something in the other's laugh made him feel uneasy, as if that the other had an upper hand on him.

"Welcome, Vicomte, to the world of the living. Welcome, Vicomte, once again to the light…" The man mocked his prey in a singsong voice, having heard the rumors of him, his wife and the infamous Phantom.

Raoul blinked, reaching to his side for his gun. Finding his pocket empty, his eyes shot up to meet a pair of cold black ones, and in the other's hands a twisted chunk of cold metal. His gun. An heirloom worth over a thousand francs. And that filthy brat had it in his hands. Now that Raoul had gotten a proper look at the other, he realized that his captor was not much older than he was. Yet his sleight-of-hand ways and cunning left Raoul a tad bit uneasy…

"What do you want?" he demanded brusquely. "I'll have you know I can have you locked up for a variety of things, boy. For I am Vicomte Raoul de Changy."

The other man just gave a smile as wide as the Cheshire cat's, and slid down to the other's bedside.

"It is simple, Raoul. Very simple."

His green eyes looked downward in a polite movement, before he started to question himself. He didn't need to do this, having seen her much more times than this, and in that lacy chemise she wore as she came down to his lair…and yet for propriety's sake he averted his eyes downward, away from her. A blush covered Christine's face as she began to dress, pulling on her clothes with hurried pace, turning her eyes coquettishly to the other to confirm his presence. The blush staining her cheeks grew as she looked at the unmasked side of his face that now faced her, the green eyes barely registering her presence, lost in a daze of his own fantasy perhaps…

"Erik…"she murmured.

He shook his head wearily.

"No more games, Vicomtesse, please."

Christine faced him with a look of anguish, her feelings barely discernable.

"Games? Erik, what games have I played? After all this while, when Raoul died, that night, I could have sought anyone else out and yet that day at the cemetery…Mon Dieu, monsieur, do you not believe me?"

The words struck him like a ton of bricks, a bolt of the blue. The fop. Dead. Somehow, he never knew that victory could come so easily to him. With a hesitant voice, he softly murmured and "I'm sorry" to Christine, before looking at her again. She was crying.

"Don't say things that you don't mean, Erik."

He blinked, wanting to reach out to her, and yet a shadow crossed his mind. She was crying for that boy! That boy who lay cold in his crypt, his gilded gold coffin…Wordlessly, he spun on his heel, and left, shaking the leaves out of his cloak and stalking off.

"Erik! Erik wait!"

Something in his voice made him want to stop and turn back for her, and he heard her running footsteps. He broke into a steady but swift brisk walk, knowing that once he had gotten back to his stallion, there would be no way that she could catch up, nor any way that he would ever see her again, and he could start a new life…

Wait.

At the cemetery, she was not wearing a ring.

And she had just said that her Vicomte was dead by then.

Erik spun around, his grey green eyes facing the woman he was running from, in her virginal beauty, damning himself for being weak for her. He couldn't! He mustn't! He had to keep up this façade; this mask…turning away once more, he walked the last few paces to his horse, adjusted the saddle and leapt on. It was only then he was acutely aware of another presence beside him, astride a dappled mare.

"Take me with you, Erik. I am alone, and I was never married to Raoul. I just couldn't…not after how I left you…please."

Her brown eyes, framed by long lashes which were wet from tears, and against that devilishly perfect alabaster skin…With her long locks and the figure hugging form of her riding clothes…the gentle swell of her breasts and her curves…his breath caught once more, and he gave a slight nod, gruffly telling her to follow, hoping it would hide the lust in his voice. He could already feel the fire in his veins from touching that **exact same damnably luscious and tempting body **during his bedamned opera! His fingers, over her taut, strong muscles…he wouldn't fall, not again to her games…

Christine could but barely discern his true emotion in his voice, hidden away from her. Already she was nineteen and yet still acting like a giddy child, when he spoke to her like that! She could not deny the passion she had always felt that radiated from him, the minute she had broken the mystical spell that was the Angel, and stared into those haunted eyes as he had flung her aside, pacing about the cave yelling.

A prying Pandora.

A lying Delilah.

Was that all she had seemed to him? A vixen, a lie, when before she had left, she had pledged her love to him and made a promise to return?

Her mind was a tumult, and riding beside him, she looked at his face, a smooth, perfect visage with his strong jawline and handsomely chiseled features. Heavens above, she almost thanked her God for giving him that imperfection. God only knows what kind of person he would have been with his tempers, slight arrogance, and talent and with a perfect face. Such a man would have been out of her league, barely giving a passing glance to a lowly ballet rat like her. And she would have ended up with her childhood friend, that Vicomte, and would she have been happy?

No…never.

There was a clatter of hooves as Erik stopped, and she realized that she had just said her response out loud.

"Yes, Christine? Did you say something?"

xXx

As much as he tried to pay closer attention to the roads before them, he could not help but steal passing glances at the woman riding beside him. Fate had certainly been kind in its design to murder off that blasted fop at such a young age, and leave this goddess to him. He could see her drawn, harried face that she was intently deep in thought. He wondered what, but decided that maintaining the air of professionalism would be for best, and kept riding forth. He slowed the pace slightly for her sake, as he could see her grip on the reins beginning to loosen with her depth of thought. Fearing for her safety, he rode closer to her, ready to protect her from any mishap. He almost laughed, mocking himself cruelly for playing her knight in shining armor, when it was that blasted boy who had always run about doing as such, to rescue Christine from him! He remembered her, in the days underground, the first time he had brought her to his home. She had taken his hand when he told her they were to go before those managers looked for her, and yet on the boat ride back, she had been sobbing endlessly. When asked why, she had choked out that she was afraid of him leaving her, begging him to stay. That night, they had not bonded as teacher and student, but as a man and a woman, sharing companionship and chaste kisses in each other's arms in her dressing room. He had not deflowered her then, for his own sake and his sense of propriety. Christine opened up like a flower to him, and they both delighted and relished in the joy of simple speech with each other, lazing in bed as she told her father's dark tales of the North, and of little anecdotal memories of her past. What had struck him the most then, was how she had only viewed Raoul as he childhood friend and crush that she had gotten over, and nothing more than that and a slight annoyance, treating her like a breakable piece of fine Royal Doulton china. When two more nights had passed with Christine not appearing and them slipping into the safety of the shadows of the two way mirror should anyone enter her room, he had finally released her with a torn dress, her lusting for his fingers and a promise to return. Then only, had he sent his trusted aide, Antoinette Giry, to announce his protégé's return, along with a few notes he had written while his love slept.

Her soft dulcet tones snapped him out of reverie and riding as he slowed, hearing her voice. No? Never? Could she be speaking to him to deny him only after half a day of riding? Could she have found him and his silence to be the most disagreeable companion a la Darcy? In measured tones, he spoke.

"Yes, Christine? Did you say something?"

She shook her head prettily; her dark ringlets buffeted by the light wind that now blew.

"It's nothing, I was just thinking of a life…if I never met you, if you had a perfect face, and if all that you were was a pompous, perfect person of high aristocracy, would you have fallen for me? And I began to worry of having a life with Raoul…I would have never been happy, no…never ever."

At Erik's startled gaze to her, she had begun to regret even saying anything, regretted even spilling her heart. All he had since that fateful night of Don Juan was to keep his aloof, professional air, not even showing any signs of neither affection nor care, nothing more than being her teacher. How she had wished, beyond belief, for him to awake that want in her again, awake her inner beast, as she shrugged the shoulder straps of Aminta's dress down, facing him on that stage, lighted in hues of red. Red, the blood of passion, the lifeblood, the color of roses, all swimming before her eyes that night as she faced his clear eyes that reflected the lovely, lovely hues of red, gleaming golden in that light. So much so, her memories would blend into the current situation, with his eyes on her and hers in reciprocation. And yet…her heart ached for the man she wanted. Him. Had he freed himself from his past, his ghosts, and his sins? Could she have him, as whole as a man? She wanted to reach out to him, in these tension filled minutes, for him to draw her over to his horse, to send this other one away that they may ride together.

Tension hung in the air, so thick that not even the sharpest sword could cleave it in two. He could easily tell her the truth that he loved her, or he could continue his façade of being her Angel heaven-sent. Finding no way out of this and having been at a standstill for a few minutes, he mentally kicked himself and the horse physically, as they began to move again, this time to a place to spend the night as the day drew to a close. An old abandoned caravan, a common sighting in the ruins of the mountains, served as their resting place and hiding place for that night as he heaped blankets after blankets on each other for her, making sure that she was comfortable tonight. At the door, he placed a single layer of stale hay that lay in the caravan, covering it with a blanket. In a dramatic swoop, he ridded himself of his cape, aware of the girl's eyes on him and his figure, which although much hidden by his layers of clothes, still showed slightly. Without a single word exchanged between the both of them, they got ready for the night ahead, Christine loosening the laces on her riding boots, and sliding them off to walk around in her black socks and riding gear. He sighed, wanting to remove his coat, vest and cravat, but with her around…sin was lurking heavy in the air, waiting to strike, as she dragged her heavy pile of blankets with much effort closer to him.

"You'll be cold, mon ange."

"I am sure that I will be fine, Christine. This is much warmer in comparison to my underground cave."

"I insist," she said, with a little petulant pout to her lips, wanting to care for him even if her did not care for her at all.

"Have some decency, child."

She shook her head. "Mon ange, I need it not. After all those rumors, have you not heard them, mon ange, I am the Phantom's whore! This is but a continuation of the rumor, and a pledge of myself to you…did you not realize? That night which you dragged me down once more to your lair? Even in your anger, you kept looking back. You kept looking back as if you were worried to hurt me. And as I left, I looked at you, a final gaze, I saw you pure and whole, as I heard the first crack of the mirrors, I could tell, Erik! For God's sake I could tell that you had released the hold the darkness had on you. And I wanted you…"

She let out her breath, having half screamed that in a breath. Had she not said enough? He still faced her, and what more with that lackluster, emotionless masked side! She almost wanted to scream in agony and frustration, before she saw his eyes, smoldering as he slowly turned to face her, as her hands moved with a mind of their own, slowly ripping him of his mask again.

For the next few seconds, time seemed to slow to a crawl for them as Erik instinctively rushed to cover his deformity with his hand, and Christine lunged forth to catch that same hand and place a kiss on his lips. With animalistic strength and the looming, mocking voice in his head that reeked of her pity, he shoved her aside, growling.

"Temptress…you mock me so! It changes **NOTHING! **The feelings you have for that boy…your precious Vicomte, don't mock me, Mademoiselle, there may be no audience waiting this time, but do cease in your futile attempts to-"

At that very moment, he was directly aware of a certain presence, clinging to his clothes and sobbing softly.

"Do you really think that way, Erik? Has this godforsaken darkness really BLINDED you beyond living? Seeing? And that you may mistake me for some godless chit and vixen…am I not your pupil?"

So that's what it was.

The damned lessons! The pretense, of the angel! The angel, the only angel he knew, was crying before him, alone again.

"Pupil."

He spat out the word like it was scum, a bad taste lingering in his mouth.

"Always about the damned lessons, eh Christine? Have you never stopped to think-"

" Is that what you truly believe of me? That I've never seen you as anything more than a tutor? Look at me Erik, how I wept for you, DAMN YOU, MONSIEUR, FOR YOUR BLINDNESS TO THE TRUTH!"

"The truth which you speak of is but a lie," he countered, through clenched teeth. "You could never hope to love a man, no, a MONSTER like this! This," he said, picking up the mask with a flourish, "is but a semblance of how I would actually care for this godforsaken world. A sort of kindness, no, a sense of propriety, that they may not have to feast their holy eyes on the Devil's Child…"

She shook her head violently, crossing the floor in a leap as she pulled him close, her fingers, her palms pressed on his shoulder-blades, slipping her arms around him as if it was the most natural and normal thing to do.

"Tell me…"she said in a hushed and heated sigh, placing a little kiss on his lips, "that my feelings here are a lie."

Erik sat on the floor of the caravan, letting out a whoosh of breath.

"Liar," he murmured, reciprocating the kiss.

Christine melded with him with a heady sigh, her brown eyes locking with his golden-green catlike ones.

"Mon Ange…" she smiled, resting her head against her Angel's wide chest, snuggling into him. "Rest with me tonight…" she murmured, yawning slightly before lacing her fingers together, rested against him. He sighed wearily, pulling the blankets over them.

"Goodnight, Christine."

"Goodnight, Erik."

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Erm! Review! Review! Thank you I love you. Erik shaped cookies? Or would you like free Punjabs for killing all those Raoul lovers? Hmm? Any Phans out there?


	3. This Strange Duet

Ufufu~ seems that I cannot resist to upload ANOTHER chapter. OTL Such a review whore. Hmm hmm hmm~ As of now its all the fluff and fluff but eh, I'll be nice for now lol.

The reason why I can update so fast is cuz I have this written out ages ago. xD Have fun with this! Chapter threeeee~

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__Chapter Three

_"Some things don't last forever, but some things do. Like a good song, or a good book, or a good memory you can take out and unfold in your darkest times, pressing down on the corners and peering in close, hoping you still recognize the person you see there."_

_― Sarah Dessen, This Lullaby_

Dawn had not even arrived, and yet Erik was stirring, having gotten used to taking power naps only once in a while and functioning wholly as a being in a sense. Gently settling the young girl onto the heap of blankets, he made his way out of the door and down the to the nearby brook. With a towel in hand and a cake of soap, he relieved himself of his clothes, slipping into the icy cold darkened waters. This varied much from the heated waters he used to pipe from the lake into a tub located behind a curtain in the Louis-Philippe room, but it awoke him and his clouded senses to the reality of the world. Soon, very soon, dawn would arrive, and he was considering if it would be for the best to leave Christine once more, before she would leave him. He sighed to himself, humming the tunes from his opera, sinking under the cool waters again.

Christine stirred slightly, wanting to find warmth. The night had been cruel to her when Erik left, and she sneezed, awaking. Looking around the room, it was empty as the night before when they had found it, and Erik's bed linen were still slightly warm. But where was that man, that Phantom, her angel? Their horses were still saddled and tied to the tree outside, so she concluded that he could not have saddled up and left her to her own devices. Gingerly, she got up and took a step towards the door, intending to bathe in the brook. Taking a soap cake, towel and change of underwear from the bag of supplies, she headed out.

The morning air was cool and crisp, with a gentle twittering of birds in the foliage. Pine trees surrounded them like a crowd, their tall branches towards the sky. Sweden, she realized, she was back home. In the land of Papa Daae and his stories, playing the violin in the attic…her mind flashed back to another time where Raoul had sat beside her, and they had held hands and sung along to the strings of the violin. It was his most prized possession, a Stradivarius that. Bowing the strings, he produced the most beautiful tones, and she could remember climbing onto his lap and begging her father for song after song, gypsy tunes they had heard from their years of travelling. She remembered when Raoul was nine and she was six, and he had rescued her scarf from the sea, when they had gone to Perros-Guirrec for a travelling concert. They had stayed for half a year, and Daddy Daae's health was already fast declining then. They had not even began to make preparations for their return journey home, and he had been lying in his coffin, dead. Madame Giry had taken her then, and she had caught a glimpse of a teenaged boy that followed her, with his haunted eyes. Their eyes had met for the fraction of a second, and he was gone.

She now knew the teenaged boy, who he was. His lean, gangly, awkward form had not been a foretelling of what he was now. Rounding the corner, she caught a sight of the exact person she remembered. Once her angel, once a sighted acquaintance, and now…Her breath caught as she realized that he was as naked as the day he was born, swimming through the river with powerful strokes. Heat singed her cheeks as she realized that he was now staring back at her, with a unmistakable gleam to his eyes.

"Come, mademoiselle, what have you need to fear?"

He gave a playful grin, the night spent with Christine seeming to bode well for his emotions that morning. Reaching out to her, he gathered an astonished Christine into his arms, the water soaking through her clothes.

"E-Erik!" she cried, her blush deepening.

She looked into his eyes, the endless depths of emotion. He murmured something unintelligible, pulling her closer to his body, relishing in the way that her skin felt against him, slowly disrobing her. His dark eyes met hers, smoldering with emotion,

"Beg me to release you. Hate me for what I am. Do you see how much I want you? Do you? And yet…last night…" Letting out a choked sob, he buried his face into Christine's bosom, nuzzling her, before looking up at her with a withering smile, almost reminiscent of a dying rose.

"Christine. I love…you."

Having said his piece, he waded out of the water, his body dripping. He wrapped a towel around himself, not even sparing Christine the tiniest glance. Left alone, she only wept.

The young Vicomte struggled against his bonds that his captor had tied him up in.

"Simple? What simplicity is this?"

His captor did not reply, save for throwing a knife at his head, smartly taking off a few of his locks.

"It is nothing. I am just but a man in need of fortunes and revenge, Vicomte. And I hear we have the common goal of taking down a certain man."

Raoul blinked.

"You mean the Phantom?"

The man nodded.

"Phantom no, Erik, yes. But what do you know of this Erik? A Phantom. A monster. A man, who stole your betrothed. But ah, Vicomte, did you know of his birth? How he murdered my mother, his caregiver, for merely pretending to be his mother as a child? What do you know of his lineage, Vicomte? **What do you know? For all you know, that insufferable, detestable man…**" Here, he paused to give a laugh, a mocking one that cut the Vicomte through his soul.

"How would you like to kill your own half brother?"

Erik sat in the caravan, wondering if he had chased Christine away. He blinked, remembering his hasty departure. He stared into the dim blackness of the caravan, barely lit by the slivers of light shining through the cracks of the window slats. He fingered the ring in his pocket nervously, the ring that he had snatched from her, and given back, and yet she had pressed it back into his palm…

He groaned, placing his hands in between his palms. Never would he understand his love for such a woman, nor her love? Was it even love? For him? A sheaf of papers was amongst his travelling items, hidden in a secret pocket under the saddle of his horse. Before retiring last night, he had slipped the papers into his coat, now bringing it out to read. Before he had left Paris, he had employed the use of a top end private detective, whom he paid a handsome sum to for utmost secrecy. It was details regarding his birth.

He scanned the page quickly, taking in the useless information like the deformity of his face, and the person whom he had called Mother and attempted to love… A curious thought however struck him when the name did not bear the word Mother beside it; instead it bore the words Nurse. A nurse? That woman was but his nurse? He looked further down the page for enlightenment as to his mysterious birth. And then the words that would scar him worse than the deformity, leaving him with the endless guilt and burden of his own cross and sin to bear hit him like a bolt out of the blue.

_Father: Comte Louis-Giovanni Philippian de Changy_

_Mother: Eloise de Changy nee von Heloise_

_Brother: Philippe de Changy, Raoul de Changy_

Hearing the door open, his eyes flew wide open as he shoved the papers hastily into the saddle, finding that it was the wrong one, and instead, this was Christine's saddle. Opting for sleight of hand instead, he thankfully got rid of the papers out of the curious, inquisitive eyes of Christine, hopefully before she could see anything.

When Christine got back to the caravan, the slats were still closed and bolted as they had been as she left. She peered inside one of the tiny cracks, hoping to see something more of the man she loved since her childhood, her Angel that fascinated her and thrilled her. Instead, she saw him poring over a sheaf of papers that reminded her of birth certificates.

She barely caught sight of it before he flipped the page.

_Father: Comte Louis-Giovanni Philippian de Changy_

_Mother: Eloise de Changy nee von Heloise_

_Brother: Philippe de Changy, Raoul de Changy_

Those words caught her eyes, standing out contrasting from the white paper it was printed on.

He was the Comte, he was the Comte, and the Comte sat inside!

Mon dieu.

Erik…

She opened the door hesitantly, watching as Erik scrambled to hide the papers.

"Erik, what are those?"

Damn her and her quick eyes!

"It's a map, Christine. We are on a journey after all." He got up from his seat slowly, wondering if she had seen anything at all. Straightening his cravat and clothes, he donned his cowl and stepped out of the caravan, the papers rustling in his sleeve.

Hoping that she would never realize the weight of his birth.

How was he to wed her? Perhaps he would adopt a false surname then.

Raoul was stunned beyond belief. He had a brother other than the deceased Comte? No wonder the lawyer had never conferred him the title of Comte, instead he had remained but a Vicomte. Assuming it to be a form of formality as per requested in some will, he had not made a fuss out of it, choosing to play the good child that he was, was he not?

The man continued.

"It is said that one should never cross this older de Changy child, but I was unfortunate enough to be one of those employed by my deceased Master to research into the history of one certain Erik. I found out then, that you were his brother. And it is to our benefit if he is dead and gone, no? But I was a fool to take him on alone then, Vicomte. Look what he did to me."

It was then that Raoul finally saw the man he was talking to, as a proper dark adversary of himself and yet a potential accomplice, acquaintance. But Christine, dear Christine…she would never forgive him if she knew he had killed Erik. And yet he knew the monster lived, from his own side research.

"If she never finds that he lives, you can have her back, and it would be a happy ending, monsieur. I only demand his death and three thousand francs. Farewell for now."

With that, he pressed a cold hand to Raoul's neck and Raoul whited out, thankfully.

Christine rode on in silence beside Erik. How was she to cope with the fact that she was riding with the Comte of the same family as her childhood friend and former crush? She wanted to ask him something, but remembered the words of Mamma Valerius.

All in good time, my child, the Lord maketh things good in due time…

Mamma Valerius. Her rock, her strength, and now gone. As Raoul was, as her father was, as Madame Giry was now, as she ran away from Paris with Erik. But she had the Comte now! Her lover. She remembered last night, the peaceful sleep she had drifted off into with Erik close to her. Stifling a childish giggle, she turned to him.

"Sing with me, mon ange. Keep me company as we ride with your voice!"

"It is a long and arduous journey, Christine. It is therefore in our best interests if we keep the silence, lest you ruin that angel's voice of yours."

She gave a little sigh. "Please, mon ange? The road is long, and I would dearly love to hear your voice in song, just once."

"Very well, but just this once."

She almost let go of the reins to clap her hands in delightful glee.

"Thank you mon ange, mon amour…"

_Les oiseaux qu'on met en cage,_

_Peuvent-ils encore voler?_

_Les enfants que l'on outrage,_

_Peuvent-ils encore aimer?_

_Mon amour,_

_La rosa bel ange Christine,_

_J'etais comme une hirondelle,_

_J'arrivais avec le printemps,_

_Je courrais par les ruelles,_

_En chantant des chans gitans,_

_Ou es-tu ma bel ange Christine?_

She blushed slightly, realizing that like Don Juan Triumphant, this little song was dedicated to her. With the memory of the other aria fresh in her mind, she began to sing in kind.

_Ou es-tu mon ange Erik?_

_Mon amour,_

_Je t'aime._

A gypsy lullaby, one that her father often played in his travels. How had Erik known? Then she remembered, a little shadowy figure she often saw when her father played and she danced. A little boy, who shunned the light? Every time she had reached out, he had shrunken back and she could never find him, not in the throng of people that flocked to hear her father's music.

"Erik, that song was my father's song on his violin. Could you perhaps be the boy I reached out to all this while?"

He curtly nodded to her.

"I have met your father before. He was a superb musician and a very good man, cherie."

He refused to ever tell her the last thing he had heard from him, from the dying man himself, at his last performance. As of now, Christine surely must assume that their meeting was purely by chance, since Madame Giry had only spotted her dancing and had never known her father. But Erik knew, to a certain extent that the Girys were a close friend of Daddy Daae, not to mention that this was a prearranged meeting to bring Christine in as part of the corps de ballet. Surely, the occurrences where he had chosen her to be his singer was more of a doing on his part, but yet…to a certain extent, this carefree child had been subject to the whim of everyone who was her guardian. The list of which now included him too, he noted with a twinge of regret. He wanted to love her freely, and let her live. Perhaps, the caged birds he sang about were not so much he as her, he mused. As if to hammer in the final nail in finality, he remembered the dying man's last words.

"My boy, even with your distorted outside, I can see your heart of gold inside. Monster you will never be, especially to my younger one I hope. I should think she already has a special attachment to you." He smiled, pausing for breath. "As such, as young as she is, I hope you will care for her. I betroth her to you, my boy, and nobody else shall have my blessing save for you."

The dying man gave Erik a pat on the head, as the young teenaged boy howled.

"Never, do you hear me? I am a **MONSTER, **not deserving of such, please monsieur."

Tears streamed down the younger Erik's cheeks as he ran out of the room, almost crashing into the younger Daae, now his fiancé, as she entered. He could see the shock in her face, almost having crashed into him, but for that moment, he could not discern any disgust, none, not at all.

"Erik? How did you meet my father?"

"It was by chance, he noticed me looking at his violin with longing. It was then, the first time I ever touched an instrument properly." He gave a sound pat to the violin case on the horse's flank. "This is actually yours, I believe, if you ever learnt to play." He smiled at the younger Daae. For now he would withhold her status from her.

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Yes. I shall just say. Until now, I never put up a disclaimer, but in light of the stupid SOPA which I see popping up again, I don't own this. Nope, not at all. But this is a fanfic. I own the story. I don't own the characters. Or else the movie would have been longer. Erik would have more scenes. I'd probably make him strip for you phangirls out there xD

Please review! It makes me happy! /hands out black ribboned roses to you all/


	4. Angel of Music

Wooooohoooo! I have written until 20k words for this, and as a celebration, you guys get a fourth chapter! I'm really spoiling everyone, huh. Thank you to all the three that followed this story, and the three that reviewed so far! Please more people please review? I don't claim anything for this lyrics except my pathetic edits, and some lyrics from the previous chapter are the genius of the person who created Notre Dame de Paris the musical, and these are the blood and sweat of ALW lol. I don't own them, please don't sue me! I love you all. Please read~ here is a extra longish chappie as a celebration lol. /pops champagne/ :D

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Chapter Four

"Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure."

― Stephen King, Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption: A Story from Different Seasons

The days passed uneventfully with Christine and Erik sharing little tidbits of their own past, although nothing was starling to either of them. Christine grew weary of the small talk, as a curious teenager on the cusp of womanhood; she perused to pry a bit more into this mysterious Angel's past.

"Angel, I was told you had a time spent in Persia! Surely it must have been a joy to be in the Shah's employment! Tell me, mon ange, tell me about it! I have almost exhausted all of my past ever, do tell me of yours!"

His eyebrows shot up at her seemingly innocent request. That exact time in his life had been his darkest, his worst, and he had never hoped to share it with her if he could. Perhaps, if he told her, she would leave and return to Paris to be a good opera singer, and marry some boy not worth her love, and continue singing. And yet, he knew in his heart that he would never let her go, not after this prolonged periods of travelling together.

"Do you really want to know, my little Prying Pandora? Why unleash the curse upon yourself? Do you really want to know of the darkest secrets of your Angel in Hell?" he hissed acerbically.

Still, she held his gaze innocently, with her large brown eyes that spelt yes out clearly for him.

"Would you really care for me if you knew that the blood of tens of thousands of men were on the hands of this person you love? Would you love me even in my sins, as you claim? Don't be so naïve, Christine Daae."

"Erik! Why don't you trust me? Are you afraid? Afraid that I would reject you? Even after all these weeks of travelling with you? I returned to you! No, I never needed to! I always belonged to you! Why can you never believe me?"

"Because of that boy! Because nobody sane would love a criminal like **me.**"

"Look at me Erik! Do you see hatred in these eyes? Do you see hatred flow forth from these lips?"

With one fell swoop, she captured his lips, her tongue waltzing with his to an unspoken beat. When she broke the kiss, she was breathless, gazing still into disbelieving eyes. Slowly, as if in a dream, Erik began to speak.

"My time in Persia was the least pleasant. I was an assassin by trade by that point in time. Having honed my skills since young to fight for myself after being thrown into what was practically a den to mock me, I was ruthless and knew no bounds. The Shah delighted in my killing of all his enemies, and even had me construct a torture chamber of sorts for his viewing pleasure as I killed them one by one. I had disappeared from the Populaire then, due to the fact that I felt unwanted again when Madame Giry had taken temporary leave to be courted by some artist. In four years alone, I had killed more than enough for a lifetime. One day, a woman was thrown in, together with her lover. I was told to spare the woman, but let her watch the horrific death of her loved one. As usual, I did what I was told, but that night, as the heartrending cries of a virgin being raped rang through the palace walls, I wept for the sins, which were mine. Lowering a rope I had fashioned of my assassin paraphernalia, I escaped the palace. Instantly, the Shah sent a brigade of men after me. After I had heartlessly killed every single one of them, to make sure that nobody wept, I went and killed their families too, thinking it to be a form of mercy on their part. Only the Daroga was left, a Persian man by the name of Nadir. He was the first kind soul I had met since entering that heathen land! He was the one that assisted me in my escape to Paris, and I have kept in contact ever since, although now he resides in Nice."

Having spoken all that, he averted his eyes, not wanting to meet Christine's lest she be horrified or detest him. What he did not expect, were two porcelain perfect arms to creep around his neck and pull him close.

"Poor unhappy Erik!" she murmured. "What horrors you must have seen…"

And with those words, for the second time in his grown life, Erik felt at peace. And so, Erik wept.

The more he pondered on it, the more he doubted himself for bringing her on the journey. It was perilous, and who knew what could be lurking? They were but barely past halfway through these mountains, a treacherous set if he did say so himself from his travels alone in the past. Then, he had been but a young teenager on the cusp of becoming an adult, much like his charge now was. Looking over to her sleeping face, this goddess, he could barely breathe again. His chest tightened as he beheld her form for the billionth time in his whole life, since her youth to now, where she had blossomed into a willowy, beautiful young maiden, accentuated with the curves of a goddess.

Venus. Aphrodite. Hathor.

Three different names, speaking of the same goddess of love and fertility and a goddess endlessly beautiful, married to a deformed god such that she could pose no threat to the world. Perhaps, he could hope to have such a fairytale for himself in the marriage of himself to Christine. He had never spoken of it, but he suspected he knew that he was preparing for a life where they would live together. One day, they would return to the lair so ravaged, and he would salvage the dresses he made for her, the little trinkets he had fashioned since young, and the notes he had written. Knowing the crowd to be as dim witted as he presumed to be, he had returned to find the main part of his lair as he had presumed, ravished and ransacked. They had never found the hidden parts of it, the switches that hid the panels to his most precious items. His watercolor set and parchments still lay in the cabinet in the Louis-Philippe room, as his clarinet and flute in the cubbyholes hidden into the stone floor. The phoenix bed however, was beyond repair, and he intended to fashion another for them when they took up residence, hopefully, in Salzburg. Should fate not be on his side however, he had already made arrangements for his lair to be a hospitable place for Christine and him, and that Christine would take up a career again at the Opera Populaire if it was ever rebuilt…

If.

He could almost weep at the ease by which he had destroyed all his work by his own hand, when he had built it up from an exponentially dwindling subscriptions rate. First, he had forced them to premiere Faust, which drew in the crowds by the hundreds and thousands. And then Hannibal and Romeo and Juliet. By the time of Christine's debut, he had built up a respectable following for the Opera Populaire, almost making it worthy of the name Populaire. All he needed was Christine to sing. He would eventually marry her, he supposed, after all, she was already his, having received her father's blessing. And then that boy had showed up, inciting the anger and Phantom spirit in him to rise up and destroy everything, leaving everything in a worse state than when he had ever begun. Perhaps, he was a curse to his own self, his own follies his own downfall. Another night this night would be spent looking at a beautiful creature he did not deserve, and dreaming of a perfect life. He hummed a soft melody to himself, realizing that again, he was composing for Christine. Tracing his gloved hand over her jawline, he gathered her into his arms as gently as he could, as if to reassure himself that he was not dreaming, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

Chriiiiii-stiiiiiine…

The cold walls pressed onto Erik, threatening to cage him and drive him away from Christine. A lash from the gypsy man served to make him shrink back in fear. Outside, he could see the love of his life laughing and talking in opulent high society, dressed to the nines in the wedding gown he had designed for her. When she turned to face him, she was singing the most beautiful song ever. Taking slow, deliberate steps to him, he lunged forward to meet her, only to be driven back by the whip again, like an animal. And yet, as Christine walked closer and closer to him, she seemed to almost be the animal itself, baring sharp fangs, and laughing gaily, like bells tingling…A shiver ran down his spine involuntarily as she spat and hissed at him, like a snake about to strike…

"No! Christine!"

His eyes shot open, barely registering the dark surroundings. They had taken residence for the night in an overturned caravan this time; a bright red one like the tent Erik had been exhibited in. He sighed, mopping his brow. The dream was vivid like no other, him switching from child to grown up self and yet still fearing the whip, still almost childlike in a sense, waif thin and longing for Christine. And she had almost killed him in the dream…that Siren's song… Looking at the woman still in his arms, he let out a soft sigh of relief that she was still the way she was, and not awakened by his foolish nightmare.

_Christine, I love…you…_

_Masquerade, _

_Paper faces on parade._

_Hide your face so the world will never find you._

_Anywhere you go let me go too…_

_Christine,_

_That's all I ask of you…_

Taking off his mask so he could cry freely, he stroked her hair softly, never wanting to let go.

Christine awoke to the sight of Erik asleep and still holding her in his arms. Surprised, she snuggled in closer, realizing that he did not wear his mask. He must have somehow fallen asleep without it. She smiled to herself, slowly stroking his deformity lovingly, hoping that he would not wake.

"Christine," he murmured breathily.

Worried that he may have awoken, she hastily removed her hand, pretending to be fast asleep. When she realized that he was still fast asleep, she sat silently in the quiet of the morning, watching him sleep. What Raoul had been to her was forgotten in that eternal morning of time, in his resplendent darkness and imposing figure that lay before her like a prince in a fairytale. Often she had dreamed of her Angel becoming a man, and to love her as he had. Once, when she was eleven, she had pleaded with him to come in the flesh. Memories of that one time flooded her head as her hands curled around his cool leather clad ones, remembering their touch and feel on her cheeks.

Christine sat in the chapel, her messy chocolate ringlets falling around her hair. She had lost most of her baby fat by then, and yet she still had the innocence of a child as she approached her first cycle of twelve years. Today, she had just turned eleven, and she sought out her Angel to tell him of today.

"Mon ange! Today is my birthday! Where are you? I wished so long for a birthday where I could see you and feel you alive…monsieur Angel, please?"

Her innocent voice carried through the walls, to Erik's ears. Never had one asked to see him alive, instead, others would take to their heels and fled to the hills when they saw him approach. The Devil Incarnate, they had called him. The Devil's Child, he was titled. He could not resist.

"Close your eyes," he quietly instructed.

She nodded, complying. A soft gust of wind tickled her features as she felt a person enter the room. Erik was dressed in his Angel of Music clothes, in his dress clothes with a deep green vest and maroon cravat.

"Open your eyes, Christine…"

She opened them, and he stood before her, a man almost double her height. He was expecting her to scream or to cry at such a dark imposing figure, and yet this child merely stared at him through a pair of deep chocolate eyes before running to embrace him. His chest seemed to tighten and his heart skipped a beat, as he carried the child to sit on his lap in the alcove with the stained glass angel.

"Mon ange, please sing for me?"

He nodded slightly to her.

"But first, happy birthday, cherie."

Hugging her close as if to wish her happy birthday, she listened in rapt amazement and awe as he sang a French folksong she had heard when younger. Although she barely understood the lyrics, she in her innocence still understood it was about love. Although, it was never until the night which they had descended to his lair that she would ever understand why he had sung that for her.

_Mon amant me delaisse_

_O gue vive la rose_

_Je ne sais pas pourquioi_

_Vive la rose et le lils_

_Il va-t-en voir une autre_

_O gue vive la rose_

_Ne sais s'il reviendra_

_Vive la rose et le lilas_

_On dit qu'elle est tres belle_

_O gue vive la rose_

_Bien plus belle que moi_

_Vive la rose et le lilas_

_On dit qu'elle est malade_

_O gue vive la rose_

_Peut-etre elle en mourra_

_Vive la rose et le lilas_

_Si elle meurt dimanche_

_O gue vive la rose_

_Lundi on l'enterrera_

_Vive la rose et le lilas_

_Mardi reviendra me voir_

_O gue vive la rose_

_Mais je n'en voudrai pas_

_Vive la rose et le lilas._

Long live the rose and the lilac…

How long could they hope to play at lovers before they reached Austria and life would overwhelm them again? How long more would they two wait before they were one? Continuing to watch this man, this enigma of a Phantom, she wanted nothing more than him to ravish her senseless as her fantasies had always told her was best, and for her to run her hands through that glorious blonde sable hair, and watch his grey green eyes and the love they beheld…

For her.

Merde. She had seen and seen again.

How was he to ever keep her from seeing the horrors that had caged him like a bird? His mask lay beside his head, and he barely remembered removing it. He had longed to wake before Christine did; unfortunately his body had betrayed him. He could hear Christine in the far end of the caravan, busying herself with something. He groaned inwardly, his brow creased in a frown. It was not that he minded his deformity; he detested the social stigma that came with it. He grumbled to himself before rolling onto his side to resume his mask and get up. Already the sun was fairly high in the sky, and he had hoped to be at the borders of Austria today.

"Good morning Erik," Christine called cheerfully, noticing him awake. Also noting the fact that he had resumed his mask, she frowned. "I like you better without that," she stated plainly, as if speaking to a child.

"Do you understand the social implications there would be if I did not have such a scrap of clothing, mademoiselle?" His voice was laced with cold sarcasm, snapping at an unwary Christine. She nodded meekly, reaching up to his jowl. Catching her outstretched arm gracefully, he shook his head slowly.

"No," he hissed. "The fact that you make THAT action shows you don't. I see nothing in your pursuits, my Prying Pandora, to unmask me."

"There is, Erik. I thought that with that kiss that you would understand! I thought, then, Erik, you had released all your demons inside, all that haunted you since birth! And yet, you still cling to that dratted mask, Erik, don't you realize that I thank God everyday for what you are, for if you were whole…Erik, you would have been perfect…and I would not have you. In any case, that mask was your darkness. Your phantom spirit that addressed me when I first entered the lair, but no, never will I want that, for when I left, all I could think of was you. You heard me on the rooftop, that I am sure. Erik, it is you, you and only you that makes me sing."

"As is you that leads me into song," he thought to himself, slowly letting her hand go. Finding her temporary manacles gone, she reached up to stroke the unmasked side of his face.

"This, dear Erik, is beautiful. It looks to be fashioned by the will of God and His angels."

"While the other looks to be fashioned by the most unholy of demons and Lucifer himself, dragged through hellfire that it melted like wax. Quite an enigma, and I beg to differ as to your perceptions of perfect."

"Why should you? Look at you, your perfect body, with your lovely hair. It is said that I am too flat chested, and my hair is an absolute mess."

"Lies, all of them. You are perfect, and your hair is the very silk of God," he countered effortlessly.

"Then you. Are perfect too."

He was silenced at the simple way which she had conceded, and finding that precious time had been ticking away, he led her out into the sunshine to be on their journey again.

* * *

YAY! I will continue to write more, but I cannot promise I will update so fast, school is beginning again and I have major exams in 2 weeks time :( Review pleeeeeeease? :D I love reviews, everytime I see them in my email I let out a squeal in my head lol


	5. Raging Fire

Wow, you guys are just awesome :D Six reviews! The most I've ever gotten in such a short period of time! Thank you TNP and Kitkat :D my lovely readers! As a memento of thanks I decided to upload the next chapter early, as much as I wanted to go study haha I am such a slacker.

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Chapter Five

ラヴィアンローズ

艶やかに君を彩りたい

唇に濡れた一輪のバラで

もうその愛に毒味はいらない

青く染まれラヴィアンローズ

La vie en Rose*

I would like to stain you bewitchingly

With one flower of rose moistened by lips

This love does not need a poison tasting anymore

Stained blue La vie en Rose

-KAMIJO, Louis~Enketsu no La vie en Rose

Raoul paced about the hotel room he had been left sleeping in, fingering the gun that had been placed in his possessions again. Whoever that man had been, he certainly had a score to settle with the Phantom. Whatever arguments the man had with the man of mystery was certainly of no concern to Raoul himself, however he concerned himself with the fact that his potential fiancée was in the hands of that monster. He let out a low growl, his jaw set determinedly. Pacing the floor like a madman, he thought to himself.

Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, he could hear Christine's angelic song again…

~X~

Lyrics roiling in his mind, a body succumbing to desire, it was all that he lived with in the days following Christine's supposed leaving.

_This melody, which flows through icy white skin,_

_My body cannot forget for a moment about you._

_With you my life is the color of roses,_

_The bewitching color that you are in my mind,_

_The poison betrays this love that I want…_

_I am but a visage walking alone._

_Even if destiny does not unwind itself_

_Memories of you cannot fade._

_I want to see your awakening…_

The song he had penned for her lay in his folder that he placed at his side, in a saddlebag. As the horses trotted obediently, he longed to give the song to her. In his mind, he wondered so about the reason for which she came back. Mustering up his courage, he asked her as such. Never could he have imagined her laugh, gaily ringing through the woods.

"It was simple, Erik, I left to pacify my childhood friend. I never had any intention of marrying him even. From the day I found you as my angel, I loved you. Whatever memories I had of Raoul and I as childhood sweethearts are just that, memories. The fantasies of marriage, and an opulent lifestyle…was my childish heart thinking it to be the best for myself."

Erik choked back his words at the simple reply, pure and sweet. He had hoped that her reason was pity or empathy, and then it would have been so much easier to turn her away! But seeing this woman beside him, as they slowly crossed into the wild lands of Austria stirred hope and feelings in his heart, and his dreams…would they take flight, after a few months with her? Could he hope and dare to dream? He intended to ask her the most important question soon, before their world could perhaps crash down upon them again. But as of now, he would bide his time and wait, almost like a predator stalking its prey. How much it mirrored his cursed opera, the opening lines that that fat buffoon of a Piangi had massacred with his voice! He cringed inwardly hearing the fat lead sing his lines he had hoped to sing with Christine, and remembering her shocked face as he had stepped on the stage to sing with her. And then he remembered the unmasking. The hands rose to the levels of their eyes, shielding themselves from the horror that was he and he alone. His rash actions as he kicked the trapdoor and they had fallen, fallen through fire and brimstone and made it out alive. A trial of fire, and they had been alive. It was as Christine had sung in the alcove to Raoul. And perhaps, it was the truth that by living anew in this country, which they now arrived in, he had left his demons behind. He dismounted at a ramshackle inn, motioning for Christine to do the same. She complied willingly, gracefully dismounting. In the months they had ridden, she had learnt to make her mounting and dismounting a graceful affair altogether. He had chosen this inn, hoping it was out of the way, enough for people not to notice them. A skinny man and his wife sat at the counter, their faces jolly. They quickly established the fact that they were Christians of the same God as Christine, and displayed warm hospitality to the duo, ushering them into a room that was fairly spacious and airy. Christine smiled at them, thanking the woman as she exited. It was then she realized what the room contained.

A single queen sized bed was situated in the middle of the room. Color rushed to her cheeks as she realized how their sleeping arrangement was to be that night. Erik had seemed to have noticed the bed also, and was telling her how he would sleep on the floor that night. Looking down at her feet, Christine frowned. As much as the kindly couple had done much in the bedding and general upkeep of their rooms, the floor left much to be desired for, coated in a layer of dust and grime. It was hardly a place befitting Erik, keeping in mind the fact that he was a Comte! As much as Christine had tried to forget, she never could brush aside the fact that he was pretty much royalty, and if he were to claim the rightful title all his past deeds would be erased in the record books of pen and paper. She made a sound in disagreement to it, and he looked at her in puzzlement. Surely, he said, you do not mean to sleep on the floor, for it was hardly suited to a lady like her. Acknowledging, she motioned that they should share a bed, after all, they had somewhat done so in the woods every time they had laid their head down to rest, had they not? Erik nodded in agreement to her statement, yet he still had a semblance of propriety that night, sleeping such that the slightest movement would cause him to tumble off the bed. Christine whereas slept soundly on her side, although before her eyes closed she continually expressed a desire to be in his arms. Finding her fast asleep and the fact that temptation was great, he finally caved in with a sigh, hearing a soft cry of pleasure spill forth from her lips as she slept in his arms. Hearing that, emotions itself surged in his heart as he laid his head down for the night.

In another room miles away, a certain Vicomte had assumed the same position as Erik as he filled his mind with the thoughts of his love curled up against that monster, he told himself, filled with disgust. His hands curled around the gun, still deliberating. Finally, he threw himself off the bed, and hurling the doors open like a madman, he headed to the bar to find that assassin. Gut feeling alone got him his quarry and his contractor. No words were needed nor exchanged, the gleam in Raoul's eyes told him yes, indefinitely.

The two men shook hands, and the deal with the Devil was made. The Angel would die.

Somehow, Christine awoke before Erik again. The nights had passed with him having the habit of wrapping her in his arms, and she felt safe there, not like when she was with Raoul. Knowing the choice she had been forced into was right, she happily drifted off back to sleep. In her dreams, the fields were a lovely, becoming shade of green, and she frolicked free with her child and Erik. Yet as she would near the edge of the fields, tombstones would pop up, and Raoul's disjointed, dismembered voice would float up and consume her... Again, she awoke, drenched in sweat and in Erik's arms. As she got closer and closer to knowing her dark Angel, the past haunted her with a vengeance. It threatened to consume her whole, to drain the very life out of her as she awoke time and again, sobbing in his arms to herself. She hid such dreams from Erik, worried that he would leave her for thinking that she still held sentiment for that boy. What could one do with posttraumatic stress? She wanted to be held tightly more than ever by Erik every time she awoke from such horrors.

"Promise me you'll never leave me like everyone else did…"she whispered, hoping to high heaven he would not hear at all. Breathing in the closeness of him, she felt relaxed, as if she had been granted some respite. Why did she still dream of such horrors? Was the ordeal by fire not enough? Did her God want to test her, to trial her strength and love to Erik? She weft her hands through his wig, tugging it off as much as she could, wanting to see his beautiful sable hair. How he could bear to hide such beauty away was still a mystery to her. Other than a fraction of his face, really, he was incomparable in beauty, much like the Norse gods of lore. She often wondered about him, and the underground cavern that she had woken up in. What was the meaning of that shell shaped bed, draped in luxuries? What was the strange sculpture at the head of the bed?

A phoenix, she suddenly thought. Why had she thought of that? She dearly wanted to ask her dark angel of his secrets, but dared not wake him from his peaceful slumber…and she did not need to. For she turned around, her head in a slight incline, to find herself gazing into his eyes of fire and passion.

"It will be alright. I promised to protect you. I couldn't leave if I wanted to. Perhaps it is the morning light that is like my night, I am used to living in the night and sleeping in the day. Perhaps my night makes me sentimental, but why is it that I find myself inexplicably drawn to you?"

"You heard what I said then, Erik?"

He nodded slightly, propping himself up into a seated position. He had slept with his regular ruffled shirt that he had worn in his lair after Don Juan Triumphant, and the fact that Christine was snuggled into his bare chest so soundly was driving him over the edge with his inner feelings for her. He still thought it best that Christine was to be left to the care of Madame Giry, and a sinner like him would never deserve her, no matter how much Christine would try and try again to wipe such disastrous thought from his mind. But he very well could not leave her, not with that woman only to care for her. He well knew that the elder Giry was out of job until the Opera Populaire could be repaired, and she still had to support her daughter singlehandedly. It was then he noticed his dark wig seated nicely in between their pillows, Christine trying to look innocent as his gaze slowly travelled there. His hand whipped up to his face instinctively. Thank goodness it was still there. He raked his hands through his own hair, his actual hair, a godforsaken reminder of his actual lineage, before rising from the bed and adjusting his wig and donning it.

"I did hear, Christine. I heard all your cries for someone. Perhaps, that is the answer to my own question. In any case," he said, as he dressed, motioning for Christine to get dressed also, "breakfast seems to be ready, judging by that smell."

Like a married couple they almost seemed, as they headed down to get the breakfast prepared by the kindly innkeepers for them, he mused. The other inhabitants of the inn had not risen, save for an old man, who sat in the corner of the room, sipping a warm cup of drink. The old man waved at them, as if to wish them good morning, before returning to his drink. Erik inclined his head slightly in a nod, returning the formalities, while Christine gave a little wave. Before them was a spread fit for a king, with freshly baked bread, eggs, and honey. Just barely in their field of vision, they could see the female innkeeper, who had introduced herself as Mrs. Hej, bringing out a fresh basket of more baked goods, along with some homemade preserves. The trio of guests tucked in heartily to the meal, thanking the innkeepers profusely. Christine made small talk with Erik, and she was sure as the sky was blue, that she had never seen him more relaxed as this, as the journey progressed and they left the dark haze of Paris and his past. Austria, she reminded herself. They were now in Austria, and she was a free woman too, free of her past. And she had her love with her. Giving silent thanks to God for the meal He had provided and for her renewed life, she sipped the last few drops of milk the innkeepers had poured for her, at ease with the world. Erik had been engaged in a conversation with the elderly man seated in the corner, on his ideals of politics and the like, especially the invading Prussians into France. Somehow, this old man had struck the nail on the head with identifying the fact that they indeed were Parisians, fleeing the country due to impending war. News of dissidents travelled far and wide, and it was easy for Erik to pick up on any news at all, whether be it legit sources or not. Upon hearing the names that the old man brought up, his ears perked up and a shadow crossed his face. Apparently there was a certain few of the nobility in the armies, one of which was a certain Vicomte de Changy, who he immensely disliked.

How was Raoul alive? Was Christine's coming to him all part of another elaborate ploy? With deadly efficiency, he politely excused himself after a few more exchanges with the man, claiming that he had urgent matters to attend to. Brusquely, he led Christine up to their room, where they packed hastily, before he spun on her. With clenched teeth, he growled at her.

"You lying Delilah!"

Christine, startled, fell on the bed with a crash.

"How long did you think you could keep up with this masquerade? As we speak, the Vicomte lives. And what's more, rumors say he is in cahoots with an assassin to come after me. Who are you, Christine? A devil, an angel, an evil creature."

Christine's eyes lighted up momentarily when she heard that Raoul lived, leading Erik to shake her like a ragdoll.

"**Where do you hide the ring? Why do you persist in mocking me?**"

Still, Christine remained silent, emotions barely under control. In what she presumed was a measured tone, she looked up to the man, towering over her again, finally speaking.

"I identified the body, Erik. He cannot be alive. If he is, it must be a fantastic doppelgänger. I have no ring. He never bought me another. The only ring I have is with you. The only man that holds my heart is you, Erik."

"Enough with your lies, Christine. I will get you a job at the opera or as the King's entertainer, to sing, but you will not see me again."

As he said those words, Christine looked to him, with eyes of despair and fear of being left alone again. He turned, not wanting to face her, before they headed out and on the road to Salzburg. This woman of the Devil would only tempt him again and again, and lead him to his fall. He felt her tugging on his coat, and with a soft yet menacing don't try my patience, he felt the physical burden lift itself off him, only to feel the weight of his actions on his own heart, sinking him beneath the depths of the sea of despair.

* * *

My first ever cliffie. Sorta. Now lets all chorus as Phangirls. "POOR ERIK~"

Wait, what, you want to...

/stares nervously at Punjabs

Hey hey if you kill me how're you gonna get your happy endings, eh? Wait wait wait!

/takes pillows as a buffer and sets off a pillow avalanche

Hey look! Erik body pillows!

/takes the chance with distracted Phangirls to run

As I said in my bio, I am an otaku. Lyrics in this chapter were inspired by Louis ~Enketsu no La vie En Rose~, which is a beautiful song. :D

The opening quote is also from Enketsu no La vie en Rose. La vie en Rose means life in the color of roses. Roses are black and they are also red. To me, it holds a lot of meaning as it can also be white, and roses are generally grand. Like Erik. :D


	6. So Lost, So Helpless

A/N: Another cliffie. Dear God in heaven above belonging to Christine Daae, the God of Christine and Erik in the future, please don't let the phangirls kill me for abusing Erik. He will live though. He is always the stronger man. Amen.

I have 666 views. Erik is happy. LOT 666 then, ladies and gentlemen, a chandelier, in pieces. We are told that this is the very chandelier that figures in the famous distaster. Our workshops have rewired it with the new electric light. Perhaps then, we could hope to scare away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination...

(I typed the above thing from memory, I swear. How I even did that must be my level of Phangirling. :D)

* * *

Chapter Six

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

-Poe, The Raven

How was Raoul alive? Christine's mind too was in endless shock, finding herself absolutely in denial. Had she not identified his body? Had she not seen him before her very eyes, dead as the grave marker on his grave? And yet it seemed he was alive, very much alive. Her hands grasped the air, finding no words at all to make Erik stay. But he had to! He must stay! He could not leave her like this! And already, she knew he had plans for her to be well cared for. Already he had provided everything for her, except the one thing she wanted, a full heart. For in her perfect self was a miniscule imperfection like Erik's whole self, marred by a single thing. And it was an empty heart and soul.

Not knowing what to do, watching Erik sweep out of the door coldly, she bent her head in prayer to cry to her God alone.

Erik had as usual, magically procured lodging in Salzburg for them, a sprawling mansion on the outskirts. He slept in different quarters from Christine, preferring to take to the western wing of the house, with strict instructions for her to be confined to the eastern side of the mansion. Christine was bitterly disappointed, and before many days had passed, she sat down to write a letter to Madame Giry.

_Maman and Meg, _

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. I now live with Erik, but I am afraid calamitous news of the continued existence of my childhood friend has caused Erik to retreat away from me completely. I am at a loss of what to do. I miss you and Meg and the rest of the Populaire dearly, although not so much of our dear diva Carlotta, or the redhead dancer that used to spite me. Is Meg still dancing? Will the Populaire be up again soon? I do miss you all so much. Tell Meg to leave me some macaroons, she always ate them all before I could get one and we dancers had so few!_

_Of course, I am but joking, my dearest Meg._

_Have you all ever been in love? I do believe it is the most beautiful thing a woman can experience, and I am very lucky to have the opportunity to experience it, but then again, I think the man whom I love is terribly cross with me, Maman. Somehow I must convince him! Also, my dearest Maman, I never knew Raoul was alive! To hear the news brings joy to my heart and I feel the guilt of the murder of him whatsoever was but just a misunderstanding. I feel the blood of him has been washed off my hands. The air here is just delicious, high up in the mountains. I do believe I am no longer the sickly child I had been in the past. I miss dancing and singing, but Erik has somehow expressly forbade me to even touch the piano in this house, since it is in the west wing and I must reside in the eastern side of his lodgings. Such a beautiful house it is, I only wish that I had one of those newfangled cameras that seemed to be popping up, so that you can see the splendor of this place. I do believe Erik could procure one, but I am too scared of him now to ask, he seems to be in terribly black temper._

_I do wish you could drop by sometime. We are staying in the mountains, and I do not know the address of this house. I asked the housekeeper to write it out for me, and I can but barely read her handwriting. I asked her for a second copy for you, and it is enclosed in this letter. I do hope this reaches you, my dear friends; it is full of the greatest sentiment one can ever send in a letter! Ah, the sky grows dim; I must go for dinner alone again. I will post this on the morning._

_Love always, _

_Christine Daae._

She put the pen back into the inkwell, sealing the letter in a white envelope with a black border, something she had sneaked from Erik on their earlier travels. Finding a stamp in the bureau, she put the stamp on with a bit of glue, intending to head out early the next morning to the post office to send her letter. Now, she would bravely face the chills of an empty dining table alone again.

The sheets of his house smelt like freshly pressed linen, and it evoked certain madness in him as he remembered how they had smelt when Christine was around, and sleeping in his guest rooms. Suddenly, he felt sure he would understand why Erik wanted Christine so, and the monster had chased her endlessly. The sheets before him were stretched perfectly over the bed, whitewashed and without any hint of the status he held. The status he held so long as that monster lived, he mused. Not only did he feel a wracking obsession that drove him insane to have such a repulsive creature in his family, he also felt the anger that surged in him as to this creature's possession of Christine. He was sure she was crying, alone, in some faraway land and pining for him. What he did not know was that he was not far from the truth. Christine was pining, pining for a different man altogether. Upon his arrival and the discovery that he was actually alive, the servants had flocked back to the mansion, and the police and gendarmes had sheepishly apologized for their mistake. They however, could not track down the to be Vicomtesse, and as such had put her on a list of suspects to a very mysterious case altogether. Was this woman a swindler, trying to rob the Vicomte? Stories began to surface of Christine and the Opera Ghost, a man of the Devil himself, the Devil incarnate. Some claimed the man possessed her, others claimed that she was in cahoots with him, and they were out to swindle the whole of Paris, and perhaps the world. As much as Madame Giry tried to quell these rumors and the chattering amongst the dancers for her disgraced Maestro, she could not. The dancers grew bold and unruly, and she was sure that in their days of unemployment, they were engaging in activities far worse than the murders Erik had committed. Already she had caught wind of a dancer, Lilibeth, breaking up the families of a few fairly respectable men in the Parisian society. With the impending, looming signs of a Franco-Prussian war, she was then very surprised to receive a letter from the woman Paris was abuzz with in scandal.

Christine Daae.

The elderly woman slit open the letter hastily, yet taking care not to slice her fingers in the process. She recognized Christine's hand, but also saw how sorrow had taken its toll on the poor girl. Clearly, Christine had not been eating well, judging by the way her hand shook as it traversed the flat, bleached plane of the paper. Clearly too, the instruments used to write this had been sneakily procured from Erik. She read, laughing at the moments where Christine tried to inject some of the sisterly humor she and Meg shared, and almost cried at the way Erik kept breaking this child's heart unknowingly. She clicked her tongue impatiently, mentally tsk-tsking Erik for his blind insensitivity to the girl's pure love for him. Handing the letter casually to Meg when the blonde returned from grocery shopping, she watched as her young daughter read the contents, blushing at the way that her sister and friend wanted Erik, and then exclaiming that they should pack up and go now, it was safer than Paris anyway. Madame Giry gave a quick nod, saying she would write to the Populaire that they may leave soon; perhaps she would find a job in Austria, as a ballet mistress. Trusting in the sly and cunning of her former Maestro in his provision for them should they appear at his doorstep, the woman swept out of the sitting room into the study regally, to begin writing the letter of withdrawal. And yet, there was that niggling thought that Erik knew naught about this, and the poor girl was suffering alone in silence for pride, a sin of both of theirs.

Christine had finally gathered the courage to head over to the west wing of the mansion, not having seen Erik for almost a month. She knew Madame Giry and Meg were coming, but as to when she did not know, having received their reply only yesterday. She blinked at the sight that befell her eyes. The whole west wing was but shambles, with scaffolding about. The house was slowly being rebuilt almost from scratch, and Erik was standing in the midst of it, talking to a foreman. Christine stifled a gasp, running back to the east wing. Was it for her, or did Erik no longer love her and was building this for another woman who had captured his heart? She would never know, but just retreated back to her room, silent as the heart all alone.

Erik had sensed her presence, but he did not turn, instead he preferred to keep his aloof air to talk with the foreman. He kept his distance from her, knowing she might misinterpret this to be building it for someone else, or perhaps her. He never knew, just heard her running footsteps. How he longed to live with her in these halls, these hallowed halls. How he longed to make her his wife in these luxurious bedrooms…but he was getting ahead of himself. Right now, he knew of Christine's pain through the letter Madame Giry had sent to him, and yet he could not say anything to Christine, not yet while their façade still stood. As much as he loved her, he could not let her see just yet. And yet he feared that she might run back to that insufferable fop, and make all his work but a lie. The words and the thoughts swelled in his head to a mighty crescendo of waves as he tried to quell it and continue with the project in front of him, and on what the foreman were saying.

The bell in the main hall rang with startling loudness, and Erik hurried to answer the door with startling alacrity, excusing himself with such haste, noted the foreman. Perhaps this guest to him was of utmost importance, and Erik was building this mansion for this girl perhaps. The foreman stuck his head around the corner, trying to peer into his mysterious customer's private affairs. He saw a young blonde, probably a ballet dancer, and a elderly woman. Perhaps, the elderly woman was Erik's lover and their daughter was as such, borne out of wedlock and illicit relations. Or the girl could be Erik's lover…either way, the arrangement seemed crass for a man of Erik's splendor, the way he instructed the house to be built. Shaking the ill thought off from his mind, he returned to the worksite, barking out orders to the workers under him.

"Antoinette," Erik greeted the woman warmly, she had been a guardian to him, as well as a mother to him in earlier days. "Don't trouble yourself with those bags. I have prepared a room in the eastern side of this mansion for you, the western side is now being upgraded for Christine."

The elder Giry could barely hide the faint hint of a smirk that crossed her face.

"I see my letter has had an effect on you. No longer will you be the cold, distant Phantom she once knew, nor the intangible Angel of Music, I see. And you certainly will cease this foolish masquerade of pretending to be her guardian, I certainly do hope? For she is alone in this world, Erik, like you are. She will need someone for the years to come, and I daresay she is of marriageable age, long past it in fact, for by her age I had already conceived my daughter."

Erik's eyes narrowed dangerously, countering the elderly woman. "And who is to say that she will love me and not that dreaded milksop and pathetic excuse of a boy? He but barely knows Christine's likes and dislikes, and weaves his head around the tales and fairy stories of the Christine he once knew. And yet she seems to care for him, to what extent I am not sure, but as long as that pathetic excuse for a man lives, I doubt my heart will be at peace as to Christine's loyalties, Antoinette."

"Then why don't you question her yourself? See how she stands there waiting for you," Antoinette said, pointing at Christine, who stood by the banister of the grand staircase, wanting to welcome Madame Giry but finding that Erik had gotten to her first. Her eyes were wide in fear and shock and a mix of other tragic emotions, and she reached out a hand as if in want to speak to them, but drawing it back. As if suddenly finding strength, she took a step forth to give the Girys a hug, shrinking back slightly when she came into contact with Erik.

"Was what you said true?" she said, her voice cracking and wavering dangerously. Days of malnourishment had left her frame bone thin and with barely any meat left on it. With her already slim waist, she seemed almost waif-like, as if the slightest wind would topple her. Erik's heart almost bled indelible tears at seeing the pathetic state of the one he loved. As much as she had blossomed into a woman, she still remained as a child, one that threw a terrible, worried tantrum when Erik himself had thrown a tantrum of his own and refused to speak to her. And the damage was evident on Christine, her sunken eyes, red from crying over her loneliness, and her hollow look as she looked up to him, hoping that he would take her back.

"Please don't send me away Erik…"

He nodded stiffly, patting her awkwardly. Madame Giry stepped forth to greet the young soprano, rummaging in her travelling bag. Out of it she pulled a leather bound book in the deepest hue of green. Erik turned his head, knowing what the contents of that book were. Christine as a young girl had kept a diary faithfully, but as her commitments to the corps de ballet grew, she had abandoned it to the care of Madame Giry, the only motherly figure she had and trusted at the Opera. And Erik knew of his sins, he had snuck into Madame Giry's room to read it when she was out before, and he had been but a man at the young age of twenty-five. He blushed still at the thought of Christine and her fantasies about her intangible angel, only having revealed himself to her proper when she was eighteen. The child had stopped writing when she turned twelve, preferring to make her Angel her diary instead. The Christine he knew now was wildly different from the one he had met, who was but then a ghostly remnant of the vivacious child he had met. Back then, she had been devastated by the loss of Professor Valerius, and Mamma Valerius, old as she was and with the striking blow of the death of her loving husband, declared she was no longer fit to care for the child, sending her instead to the corps de ballet that she may further her studies as a dancer and singer. When Christine had left the house, she felt empty as a ghost, with no substance or color in her life, having had all the lifeblood drain out of her with the loss of her loved ones like her father and Professor Valerius. Mamma Valerius had promised to visit, and to see her dance, but had passed away even before the spring of her tenth year of life had come to pass. When Christine received the news, she was shocked, and had thrown a tantrum and refused to dance for days. As the kindly soul she was, Madame Giry had made exceptions for her, leading to rumors in the ballet corps that she was a special favorite, and the child of the devil, associating with the Ghost of the Opera Populaire, seeing as this child seemed almost ghost like in her mannerisms and wanderings around the opera house, and was completely unlike them. This had led to a few unfortunate happenings of minor stature, such as missing hairbrushes and hairpins, and the girls who tortured the poor young Christine swore that they heard the Ghost laughing behind the walls when they found their items missing. Back then, in Christine's heartbreaking mourning, Giry decided to introduce Christine to Erik, and he had finally appeared to her as her Angel of Music in the chapel as she went down to pray for her father, a nightly voyage into the darkness that was his own domain. Their nighttime lessons had grown, and Christine showed marked improvement in her dancing and her attitude to life as she found her Angel. Slowly, she stopped writing in her diary, and instead confided in her strange Angel. How Erik had reveled in the whimsical thoughts she had, and he remembered once when she had presented him with a small valentine, but her hands had been covered in bandages. He had raged, and vowed to seek revenge on the person that had harmed her, but was calmed by her innocent admission that she was but careless in her production of his valentine. Begging her to close her eyes that he may descend to her, he watched as she obeyed, and her slowly crept into the darkened chapel after retrieving salve from his lair. Christine had been shocked to see that her angel had taken a manly form, and was as beautiful as she thought he would be. But by chance or luck, she had forgotten his form somewhat, although her fingers were much better by the next day, and she took the happenings to be but a dream. That night, Erik had read the tiny piece of pink heart-shaped paper again and again, holding the tiny cushion close to him. Although the sewing was crude and the cushion stuffed with paper and scraps, he felt it was the softest thing in the world, as he happily looked at the valentine again and again, reading the simple words of "I love you." Surely, Christine never loved him as a man then, but the sliver of hope he had for their future beyond friendships and a teacher-student relationship made his heart soar. It was strange, then that a twenty-one year old man should fall for a ten year old girl, but to him, one who had been somewhat been denied love all his childhood, it was nothing short of magical.

He watched Christine as she turned the book in her hands, her slim fingers gliding over the crude indents she made into the paper, her writing as a child. It had changed dramatically with age, and yet she still retained certain youthfulness in her grip of her pen. Erik turned to leave, to show the Girys to their room, but he stopped when Christine called his name, realizing that she had realized that he flipped through her innermost thoughts and feelings, and he knew almost everything about her. And then he realized why, for once she had given him an assortment of ribbons that she no longer needed, some red, some navy and some black. And he had bookmarked the pages he loved the most in those ribbons. He was pretty sure Madame Giry had noticed, but had never said anything to him about, so in his usual fashion, he had brushed it aside. But he had never realized that eventually Christine would pick up this book again, and she would perhaps finally realize what a creep he was, this monster that stalked her from the shadows and knew he inside out. And yet he could sense certain feelings in her eyes. She was touched? How could she, when she had the world's greatest stalker hot on her heels?

"I see how you knew what I loved, Erik. Although it was not the best way of finding out…thank you. I was the happiest child when you gave me that dress, Erik. All my life, I never properly owned a single dress at all. Unless you counted those hand me downs that were given to my father as dresses which were truly mine," she said quietly. Erik turned smartly on his heel, nodding at her as they proceeded up the stairs, and he showed the Girys into their room, before rushing down to reunite with Christine. He gave a wan smile.

"I suppose then, you know why the west wing is being renovated," he said tersely, a deep, amused rumble coming from within. She nodded, looking up to him with hope and happiness. Tearing his gaze away from hers as the doorbell rang furiously, he rushed to answer it, Christine following close behind, only to see him being punched violently in the stomach.

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Help me. More punjabs. Dear God.

/runs runs runs runs

/angelic face

Erik is such a lovable stalker right. Right. EVERYONE PLEASE DON'T KILL MEEEEEEE!


	7. Yet The Soul Obeys

I seem to be on a roll for writing today. I am writing this as a whole chunk, and it is in Word, all as really one whole chunk of about 29k words now :P I split this up in chapters randomly for posting as a fanfic, as such haha. You guys are lucky :) Two chapter updates in a day! :D Thank you The Newbie Phan for always reviewing. ^^ You can truly help to make my song take flight!

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Chapter Seven

_"Children see magic because they look for it."_

_― Christopher Moore, Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal_

Raoul gave a leer of content as muscle made contact with muscle, and human with human, as Erik crumpled to the ground limply. He gave a short bark of dark laughter, his blue eyes dancing madly to a macabre tune of their own as he drew out a gun and pointed it coldly at Erik. He cocked the gun efficiently, as if to mock the fallen man before him as Erik gritted his teeth from the pain, knowing that one wrong move could mean his death. After all, his half brother, driven to madness, had barely missed his solar plexus. His eyes turned to the side, looking at Christine in worry. Mouthing a silent no, he began to think of a way out of this whole issue. Raoul had focused his wild gaze on Christine, a month or so being locked up by an assassin and fed lies of the horrors that Erik did to her had driven him to a level as low as when Erik had been possessed by the Phantom spirit. Today, it would be him and not Erik that would kill without a doubt… Christine did all she could as a woman, she wept but she did not take a step closer. Suddenly, she felt clammy hands around her neck, and the cold metal of a gun pressed to her temple. Two guns. The both of them unarmed, with the two females, the Girys upstairs. Praying for deliverance, she kicked the man straight at his crotch with a swift hind kick, grabbing hold of his hand before she did so. A wild bullet ricocheted off the walls resoundingly as the gun was fired. And now she stood before Raoul, tears in her eyes.

"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Little Lotte let her mind wander. Little Lotte thought, am I fonder of dolls, or goblins or of shoes? Or of riddles or frocks? Or of chocolates? What I love best, Lotte said, is when I'm in my bed, and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head, the Angel of Music sings songs in my head…" she murmured sadly, looking up to him. "Raoul, I'm so sorry. I should have never left with you. You deserve a wife, someone actually faithful to you. Not I, one who was divided."

Raoul's heart sank, feeling as if an anchor had dragged it down to hell to burn. Christine, I still love you, it cried pleadingly to her. He could feel the tears welling up, wanting to murder the man before him, but to see this reenacted before his eyes… it brought him back to a snowy day in Paris, where they had been a few months younger, and every single time, Christine would fight for this man. What did she see in him anyway, this distorted brute that was his half brother, a result of his father's illicit extramarital relations and sin? Like the person he was born as, he continued in a life of sin, killing indiscriminately, as Raoul was inclined to believe. So Little Lotte would rather love a murder who was dark even in the brightest light. So Little Lotte would rather love the Devil. Raoul drank in the revelation, never realizing it was perhaps, him who was in the wrong in this whole situation, and everyone was past the stage of dolls, frocks and chocolates but he himself. And yet he would still cling to his foolish ideals, for that was what he was respected for in this high society. Let scum be scum, let these dead bury their own dead, he thought to himself, but certainly, when Christine would grow weary of this monster, he was sure he would be the priest that would help her ascend to Heaven's glorious gates again, his own Angel of Music. And never, would he consent to this bastard-child who falsely called himself an angel, never would he consent to Erik and Christine's union, holy or unholy, legal or illegal, even if it meant defying the God he loved to the ends of the earth. Frowning deeply, his brow creased, he beckoned his assassin, who spat at Christine ungraciously, before they left. Erik's eyes blazed furiously as he watched their retreating figures mount their respective mounts and ride off.

"Care to explain, Madame Giry?" he asked, voice laced in poison as he watched the elder Giry descend from the upper floor, gracious as ever. Although he already knew the answer, the imbecile and his servant probably followed them. Something about that servant rang a bell, and he vaguely remembered threatening that man for something, although he could not place his finger on what it was. Probably some simplistic double crossing, he mused, putting it out of his mind. He jerked himself up from the floor, groaning slightly at the tenderness he felt in his stomach area, as he staggered over to the west wing to continue checking on the proceedings of the construction. That boy, dead or alive, was still such a bloody threat to him… a thorn in his side if he ever had to say so. He almost laughed at his own pun, thinking that how he would carefully remove the thorns for every rose he gave to Christine, thinking it would remove the thorns in her life, and yet, here was the greatest thorn in their love, one that really poisoned their relations more than his face ever did, most likely, and he could do nothing to remove it, except to kill him, or perhaps, to convince him that his and his protégé's union was for the best. Either way, it presented to him a complicated and ponderous problem he would require tons of thinking to get through and resolve. The only question that lingered in the air, heavier than gold was, now, how?

Antoinette strode quickly after him, used to him and his rants. As a child, she had seen him without a mask a few times, purely by accident and no other way, and each time he had hurled something at her, be it stacks of paper or even candlesticks. As a child, his temper had flared wildly, and his little tricks of stealing food from the kitchens led to the tale of the Opera Ghost flaming in their tongues to spread like wildfire. In the days post her marriage, she found a new Erik as she returned to stay in the ballet dormitories following the death of her artist husband whom he immensely disliked. She found a man broken and scarred, and yet refined as a king himself. She found a person as foreboding as dark, with secrets he would eventually come to confide in her unwillingly, his dark tales of Persia and the Shah. Judging by the way Christine was so devoted to him, she had either heard those dark tales and not bothered or perhaps pitied Erik, or she had never heard of such tales at all, not at all. Madame Giry was more inclined to bet on the latter of Christine never hearing such tales. Either way, as she hurried after her Maestro, she felt her heart wrench, wondering if to console his dark moods were really best left up to her? Or was it best that she should send Christine into the path of Erik's destruction? She knew how much Erik loved Christine; he would never harm a single hair on her head no matter how angered he was. And yet, with the worries of taking the child as his bride and the worries of her former suitor appearing once more out of the blue...Madame Giry truly wondered also, if he knew the truth of his birthright, and that his half brother had almost murdered him again at his doorstep.

Christine was in the hall with Meg, and the maid had kindly brought tea for them on Erik's orders. She told Meg of her journey through the woods, and how she had inevitably come to a realization that she could not really live without her dark Angel. With eyes that spoke volumes of her want for him, she leafed through her diary again, flipping to a page she had written as a child, the day Erik had first appeared to her.

_Dear Diary,_

_I am so delighted and glad and happy and, oh Diary, if you could even begin to imagine my happiness in receiving this delightful gift of an Angel! Papa had promised me when he died that he would send me the Angel of Music, and he has finally arrived! Not a tad bit too late at all. I love my Angel he is the best. His voice is such a delight to my ears; I wish I could sing with him one day. Is he for real, sometimes I am so scared he will leave me? I am not a very good child, you see, Diary, for today I stole a bit of Madame Giry's makeup to play with. Meg was with me, you see, we snuck into her Mother's room to steal the makeup. I'm sorry, Angel, if you knew that I am an ugly thief child. Please forgive me my unholy sins. I love you all the more, my teacher. Please continue to teach me. Ah, Diary, are you jealous that I love my Angel so much? You see, I never had much of a friend when I came here. I think Meg was forced by her mother to befriend me; I don't want to have a friend like that. Lilly keeps pulling my hair, and Chanel says I look as ugly as a toad. There is a diva, La Carlotta, they say she is the lead soprano but I don't think she sings very well. Today we were forced to attend a concert that she sang at, and I think her voice grates on everyone. All the little ballet girls were laughing at her today, and she made a rude face at us. I don't think I like her very much do you, Diary. You were in the ruffles of my long dress today, so I wondered if you heard her. Halfway, there was a crash and a loud sound, and we realized that Carlotta had fallen into a bucket of paint. There was then a letter to M. Lefevre that he should not have even brought in Carlotta. Everyone thinks it was from a ghost, but as far as I know; there are no ghosts in the Populaire, only angels. Is there really a ghost? I hope my Angel protects me. I must go now; Madame Giry is calling us to dance. _

_Love,_

_Christine Daae._

Christine shut the book, smiling at Meg. They had read this paragraph of words a thousand times as children, and suddenly in light of what they were now, it seemed almost childish. She gave a small laugh and rose from the seat to find Madame Giry. Erik's green eyes bored into her as she carelessly rounded the corner in her haste, bumping into him. He clicked his tongue, as if chiding a small child. Christine frowned, looking up to him, having fallen flat on her bottom when she had collided with him.

"I am not a child, Erik! Stop treating me like one. Where's Madame Giry?" she asked, her eyes looking behind him to see if she was there.

His eyes glinted playfully at her as he helped her up. "I believe she's back in her room. However, as to the matter of me treating you like a child…I will stop when you stop rushing around corners like a child," he said, a small, deep and rich musical laugh bubbling up from his throat.

She gave a gasp, trying to act annoyed. "Erik! I am already eighteen, and no longer a child!" she cried, hands balling into fists and hitting him playfully as he carried her bridal style, almost like a young girl. Changing her pose to spin her around playfully, he decided that he must act sooner or later before the Vicomte should threaten them again, and walking to the living room to settle her on the chairs, he took a deep breath and slowly slid the silvered band onto her ring finger. Not daring to see her reaction to it, he turned tail like a kicked puppy and ran, ran for his life to his own study, which he had placed five levels below ground, a den of sorts for his own. For him to hide away, for he was painfully shy in addressing the topic of love. Was it too sudden, or was it too late? He would never know, he thought to himself, sinking into his piano bench with a sigh. Melodies flowed forth as he commanded them, taking the form of a shunned child, sold to gypsies at a young age. His tragic tale and his fear of love. The alabaster skin of Christine. All mocking him as his creations and his music was. He could not write this melody down, as simple as it was, for it was too terrifying, too much pain to do so. Instead, he closed his eyes and slept against the cool ivory keys of the piano, not noticing the silent little click of the door as he slept. Nor did he notice the black hair ribbon, once on Christine's head, lay next to his pen and paper, with a note in it, a simple yes on parchment.

Outside the door, a young woman of eighteen wept for the heart of her childhood friend irrevocably broken by a wench and chit with their mind so fickle. As hard as it had been, she had expected this, and consented. For the weeks and months of travelling together had conditioned her heart into deciding. Yes, yes, and yes indefinitely. Mon ange, fate links thee to me till forever and a day…the very lines from Faust he had taught her to sing rang in her head like the pealing bells of a chapel as she was linked to another again till forever and a day. And then her eyes opened from the sorrow into a new land of music. And that was when Christine Daae realized, that was when she woke up, no longer a child of Little Lotte.

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Hey~ Hey~ Look! Its not a cliffie but its a GOOD END :D After two cliffie chapters and all. Hoho, I have more plot twists coming up to abuse all our characters I must say. Including some unexpected characters that emerge hoho and all from Leroux and ALW and everywhere~ So excited to share this love with you all! Any new readers? Monsieur I bid you welcome~~~

Hohoho~ /evil lets torture all characters in the future face and runs


	8. Stirs and Wakes the Imagination

WOW. I am actually done with part one in less than a month :'D Thank you for you all sticking with me through this! I don't think I'll split it up though, I will continue to update from this story itself, because well, the title Incomplete has always been sticking to me. Incomplete is my baby, its E/C and its the way that they are to me, they are like two parts of a shell, incomplete without each other. Part one ends on a happy note, although many parts are unresolved, such as that fop and etc. I actually have it all in my computer, but I'll update in sporadic updates, so I can begin on Part Two also. Part two will up the rating to M, be forewarned, it contains their wedding night etc. Although I could easily write it into another document? Should I? Leave your reviews to tell me what you think okay! I just need to look for quotes to fill each chapter, I am a quotes addict lol. Yeah, most of my titles are lines from Angel of Music, but nah, that ain't my favorite song. xD Guess which is mine? Hint: ALW said that this was one of his most sensual songs, and there are only two. Quick quick, guess, it makes me happy lol. Eh, in any case, I present you Chapter Eight.

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Chapter Eight

Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Was waking such a bliss? Could waking be such a pain? Two souls in the same building within proximity of each other awoke both metaphorically and physically, yet one felt as if her heart would break with the complexities of what love really was, yet one felt as if he could ascend to the heavens to be the creature he had long pretended to be. Christine sat at the bureau she had been presented with in her room, flipping open her diary to write again. She was sure she was no longer the lost and wandering child she was, and yet she did not want to lose a dear childhood friend. Writing to her diary her sorrows and fears again, she turned, her cheeks stained with tears both happy and yet also sorrowful, to a man she had given her life to. Would he understand that to leave a childhood friend in such despair also left her in despair? But she had made her choice at the door of this house today. The man that stood in the doorway was to be her husband, not the one she had coldly turned away. And she knew that this was right. She would be a songbird; she would never be caged up. And yet, she wished that Erik would tell her, tell her that he could renounce the de Changy name, for as much as she disliked being on the run, the fears that she had of him, the heightened sense of being, she wanted it all. She wanted to tell him the secret she knew of his actual birthright, and for the last barrier to fall before they would marry, before they passed the point of no return.

"Erik," she said, rising from her chair, wiping away the tears of mixed feelings. She gave a wan smile, as the other looked down and wiped away her tears.

"I didn't mean to make you cry." He stated plainly, a worried frown crossing his face.

"No, no," she smiled, looking up to him. "Erik, I always dreamed of a fairytale wedding with my Angel. Even after all of that.," she stated pointedly, referring to the events of the Populaire, "I still felt in me when I saw you, the undeniable…fire. I burn for you, Erik, with a fire that consumes. But when I saw Raoul today…I knew. I knew I had to let him go, I could never love a man like that."

Her voice and her words hung in the silence, as she strode silently towards him. The mask he now wore, the white half mask, made it hard to judge his true emotions. She frowned at the barriers that still lay between them, and looking up to him for permission, for the first time in her life, she noticed him give a weary nod, before she removed the mask, as he slowly bent down to capture her lips. Time had slowed to a painful crawl for them, but it was bliss as she returned the gentle pressure, noses gently bumping each other. In the house, she but wore soft slippers, so she tiptoed slightly to reach her tall lover's lips. Blushing as she pulled back, she frowned slightly.

"Erik, can you promise me that there will be no more secrets between us?"

He gave a soft chuckle, nodding.

"Anything, anything for you."

"First, who is that man at the door with Raoul? You seemed to recognize him. And then the matter of your surname…Erik. You never told me that you were my childhood friend's half…brother."

Erik gazed at her with a wild, frightened look in his eyes.

"How did you find out, my Vexing Venus? Did you peer through my items while I was away? You were never supposed to find out. Not until we were married…"he finished lamely. At that point in time when he had discovered the truth of his name, fearing it would only cause problems for her, and for her career as a opera singer, he had decided to keep it silent and under wraps. Besides, he had no wish to associate himself with that boy that had almost killed him not once, but TWICE, and at his very own doorstep. No way would he associate himself with that family that would abandon him as a hapless babe, to a woman as cold as his heart had been. No, he could not, and would not. It would be an infallible blow not only to his pride, but to his soul as well. He failed to notice, however, the sparkle in Christine's eyes as he acknowledged that fact.

"Erik, why wouldn't you associate with him? I know you were ill treated as a child, and as well as sent away, but I swear, if you did get to know Raoul perhaps this whole issue would be solved."

"Did you not just see my own half brother attempt to kill me at my very doorstep?" he said dryly. "I am pretty sure that with his talent and genius, he already knows of his relations to me and wishes to wipe the sins of his family away."

She slowly nodded, understanding the severity of Erik's sins, but also wanting for the two half brothers to be reconciled. Knowing her want to sing, Erik could never come out into proper society, for it was improper for a Comtesse to perform in public like a common showgirl. However, if Erik were to reveal the truth of his birth to the gendarmes and keep it all hush-hush…an alternative opportunity presented itself to Christine in her mind as she looked up to him.

"Perhaps then, you could let the authorities know but the public kept in the dark? Then I could still perform. And you want me to perform, don't you? You are my voice, Erik, I fear your years of tutelage will never allow me to let go of that," she conceded with a sigh. Erik gave a hint of a smile, a barest ghost of it as it flashed past his lips.

"Perhaps, but I am not one to compromise." Moving past her to get to the bureau, he tripped the catch to open a secret drawer where his papers were kept. Drawing out a sheaf of papers, he waved them in front of Christine.

"Do you know what these are?" he asked with quiet intensity. When she shook her head, he continued. "These are the clippings of ever murder reported in the headlines, every murder I have committed. There is no sum of money that can bring these people back, nor for the law to forgive me. Also…"he murmured, rummaging in the drawers, "These. Are your headlines. Every performance you gave, which received stellar reviews. And every performance you gave…I attended. You asked for there to be no secrets, Christine. Can you face the gravity of this? Can you hope to comprehend what I am?" Catching her face in his hands, now ungloved, with their callouses, he stared straight into her eyes. "Tell me," he said brokenly, "that you are not afraid. Tell me, that this doesn't make you repulsed. Lie if you must but, Christine, ah, mon ange, you can never leave me."

The papers had been scattered on the floor in a haste, and Christine could see little scribbling of music, scores all over it. Reading the scores, she realized these were the very first few drafts of Don Juan Triumphant. And then the realization hit her that Erik had been planning for their life together, probably since the first day they had met. Finally gearing up the courage to open the wardrobe she had never touched, she was amazed at the dresses inside. All this while, she had been wearing the few, ill fitting dresses she had brought with her on the journey, along with her measly possessions of the red scarf, a music box, and a toy bear, all from her father. She also had hair ribbons and various other fineries bought for her by other suitors and Raoul from her days at the Opera Populaire, but she had never brought them, nor really worn them. All in all, the most treasured possessions were far and few, and she only had a few dresses to her name, along with Erik's black silk ribbons when the roses had withered. Why had she never explored her room more, she never knew. Perhaps it was the assumption that it was a guest room. She gasped, feeling the soft gossamer silks of the dresses in her hands, some of them for night balls and some for day visiting, some for wearing at home, but all well befitting a Comtesse. Breathless, she turned to thank Erik but found him gone.

Erik had retreated to his den again, sobbing like a child. Finally, he would let her decide. But it was not much of a decision, he thought to himself, as he looked upon the matter in its entirety. She had accepted his proposal, but she had never known of his obsessive side. She had only known at most of the wedding dress he had in his lair, but as a fugitive, he had houses all over the countries, including this. In every house, he had it stocked with the best fineries, for her alone. All she had to say was the word, they could pack up and head to another house, or he would order a new set of clothes for her. Twenty thousand francs a month was quite the monthly stipend, he realized, with all the endless luxury he lived in now. With other art jobs on the side he had, in addition to composing simple tunes for some famous composers, all through middlemen and Madame Giry of course, he had accumulated a fortune enough to last him at least five lives over, should he live at least until ninety. The door to his study clicked again, and he growled lowly. "Get out, Antoinette."

"Stop being a child, Erik. You and I both well know you are throwing a temper tantrum," she said with a firm tone, as if speaking to the younger ballet girls. "Erik, I owe it as much to you to bide you through this. Courtship is never an easy process," She gave a wry smile, remembering when she was younger and she was being courted herself. "Henri used to visit me in the dead of the night, when all the ballet girls were asleep. We used to escape to the roof, until the previous ballet mistress, Henri's aunt, caught us. I remember until now how Henri was whipped by his aunt. He was crying and yet he smiled at me. And then…I returned from my marriage, to find you had changed beyond my recognition in terms of your temper and the likes. Erik, why? You never really properly explained it to me. All you said was Persia, and you left again. And then when my husband died, you comforted me, you told me you loved a girl, I was so afraid it was me, Erik. And you begged me to stay, so I took up the job as the ballet mistress. Because of you. So Christine was the mystery girl, I now see it. But Erik, tell me. Where did you go?"

"Persia. I went to Persia, I was an assassin."

"An assassin, Erik? Tell me. Do let me make this up to you, Erik. You let me cry on your shoulder, now I will hear you out to cry on mine."

"No," he said, with quiet, dark intensity. "Never will I speak of those times again if I am to be a changed man, Antoinette. You cannot force me, I have spoken of them to Christine and that will be the final time I ever do so, for scaring anyone into fear or anything. You asked me to change, Antoinette Marie Giry, and yet you speak of the EXACT things that made me as such. If I were to lay myself bare before you would you realize the extent to which I suffered as an assassin? Would you see beyond the scars that I have as an exhibition? You rescued me once, Giry, but you cannot hope to do so again. For in those years you left, the void which you left, perhaps, yes I did love you then as a sister and to some extent more, but Giry, you will never be able to understand as Christine did. And that is what I feel. No more on this matter, Giry, please," he said hoarsely. "No more."

"Very well," she said, with steel in her voice and her resolve, as she rose to leave. "I guess I am but your physical aide, but I cannot be more. Forgive me, Maestro, for not understanding you sooner. I must leave, my daughter will be waiting."

The icy cold demeanor that Madame Giry adopted barely was a sufficient enough façade for the woman to conceal her real feelings, and the shock of discovering that Erik, as a young teenaged boy…why she had been his first love! His first crush, and she had truly crushed him by leaving him all alone. Perhaps, it was for the best that Christine filled the void she never could fill, perhaps then it was best for her to continue as their motherly figure, and to stay out of most of their private affairs altogether, as Erik had stated so plainly to her. She was wounded, but barely. Still, she would live and care for them. Was this not what she wanted when she birthed Meg, when she had Henri? Then he had run away. She had told Erik that he had died, but the cold truth was that Henri had actually run away, when Madame Giry could not pose for him anymore. He had lost interest in her. Just as Erik had, it seemed. She slowly ascended the staircase, colliding with Christine who was flying down it, her eyes sparkling with wonderment and amazement.

"Madame, Madame. Oh my goodness, I can but barely believe it…Erik…he…. Well, he certainly provided for me. In addition to the dresses, the makeup, everything I ever needed or wanted since I was a child…its too much, its all a dream, I don't want it, I just want him…and I am to be married to him, so soon, so soon…"

Christine was a babbling wreck by this time, so overcome with emotion and the realizations she had of Erik. She had never wanted such worldly possessions, being the good little Catholic girl she was raised to be. She was taught since young to renounce such things, although she never had much to renounce, their family being poor after her mother had passed. Her father spent the days travelling, and they would be the performing duo. She would always join a gypsy caravan or two, but they would never stay. Suddenly, she remembered, one particular incident. It was in Paris, and she was performing with her father. It was the first time they had been to Paris, and they were spectators of the Opera back then, which to Christine's disappointment had been a complete failure. Performing in the night with her father, she heard the plaintive wails of a child, the one the gypsies whispered to each other as the Devil's Child. And then she remembers a beautiful young ballerina with hair like Madame Giry's, and the night of murder. And it all falls together so beautifully, as she rushes down to Erik's den, she has realized, she had realized of the gypsy boy he was.

And in her haste, she forgets that there is trapdoors that she must look out for, trapdoors even so in the house that is to be hers. The trapdoor opens, a yawning hole stretching out below the young woman, like an animal ready and willing to consume her alive. Christine gave a scream, her hands barely catching on the ledge, which had been there, but minutes ago. Erik! Her mind and body called out to him repeatedly, crying softly.

Erik.

Eriiiiiiiiik…

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Hahahahaha oops another cliffie of sorts, eh. Time to torture Christine. I take delight in torturing my characters one by one, although Raoul is /constantly/ tortured by his monstrous fop self throughout my story. TNP, I'm sorry but I won't kill him off but I will continue to torture him. I intend for him to live a la the movie. Please review! It makes me happy. :D


	9. Dungeons of My Black Despair

WOOOOOOHOOOOOOOO On a happy note, I have phinished two PHysics papers and more and did so much studying and writing I decided to update this again because yeah yeah I wrote up to their wedding. I haven't written their wedding night though oAo I'm scared I can't make it classy smut l0l. I now have two documents totaling 72 pages, and about 36.6k words lol my longest story yet :'D And so it continues...

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Chapter Nine

"The difference between my darkness and your darkness is that I can look at my own badness in the face and accept its existence while you are busy covering your mirror with a white linen sheet. The difference between my sins and your sins is that when I sin I know I'm sinning while you have actually fallen prey to your own fabricated illusions. I am a siren, a mermaid; I know that I am beautiful while basking on the ocean's waves and I know that I can eat flesh and bones at the bottom of the sea. You are a white witch, a wizard; your spells are manipulations and your cauldron from hell yet you wrap yourself in white and wear a silver wig."

― C. JoyBell C.

The mournful wails of a woman reached his trained ears, like the Siren that sang below the lake before he disposed of her simply. He still recalled the beast of legend, a spirit that haunted his lake. When he had broken her neck, she had cried, and he heard her last song and lived. As a child, barely eleven, he had destroyed her when he found that cavern finally and made it his home. And he had wept for the creature of beauty, but had been possessed by the Spirit of Song, but Dance had not been present. In her sad lullaby she had sang to him, she had told him of the future, of Christine, but she had never told him of the madness that possessed him indelibly, she had never told him of the price he must pay for the gift of song. Shoveling his scattered sheet music into a folder, he dashed out of the room to find this Siren that haunted these halls. He did not expect however, the cold, white fingers of Christine that hung off the ledge, her eyes fearful as she looked up to him. Why do you not trust people, they asked, this folly of your mistrust! Why do you not trust them and this trapdoor, this trapdoor that almost led to my death…When Erik pulled her up, she was shaking with fear, and she had all but caught a cold.

"Erik…" she muttered, nestled in his arms. "You don't trust anybody still. When will you learn…" On the verge of death, and she could still think about how Erik was to be a better person, to enter the world of the light and the living. He murmured an apology in reply, laying her on the chaise in his den. How or why he even had the chaise in the den he did not know, but as he watched her sleep, turned over her hands, was then he realized how much she had suffered for him. Properly watching her, he realized the scars on her face, the miniscule wrinkles, the way she had really blossomed into a woman, and her hands, red and raw from hanging on. How long would she have to hang on? On a precipice where she would fall, just because of him? As much as the fire had burned away the Siren curse he was bestowed, as much as the fire burned away the anger and the sadness, he would never cope with the world, and he would never fit. Like the last puzzle piece, a frustration and the indelible thorn in everyone's side he would be. And Christine's constant returning to him puzzled him, how could she ever hope to want such a horror, this terror? He stroked her hair gently; in her sleep he could see the way her face contorted with the cold and chills wracking her body. Stoking the fire to turn up the heat in the room, he ascended to the upper levels of the building, taking a few blankets from the laundry room. Wrapping Christine gently in them, he sat back down at his piano, the soft tinkering of a gentle music box-styled melody wafting through the air, almost the reminder of the wild lands of Scandinavian Östersund, before it had developed into the bustling city it was. There, Christine had spent the earliest years of her life, before she was to traverse the lands with her father. Erik had heard her singing this melody before, sometime before she was to fall asleep. As the ballet mistress, Madame Giry had shushed her on the request of the other girls, especially that vixen of a Vanille, who had been the loudest in her voicing of the dislike of Christine's little song. Vanille had become the stagehands' favorite soon after she turned fifteen, spreading her legs for all of them. How had he known? Well the godless chit had wandered about the hallways, often meeting with him by accident, although he would disappear into the passageways that dotted the Opera Populaire. He had watched Christine wandering in the backstage passageways also, and had directed her away from such indiscriminate mating that took place like animals, to preserve her virtue. She was his doll then, his lovely little marionette that he could train and condition to turn into a beautiful singer, the beautiful singer she was today. Remembering how unconditioned her voice had sounded on the journey to Austria, he frowned. Had the milksop prevented her from singing, for fear that he, Erik, the Phantom would rise again to capture and kidnap this lovely woman who was always his? Look who was the devil here, he wanted to scream. As the story of Hades and Persephone went, like Zeus, Daddy Daae had promised sweet Persephone, or in this case, Christine to Hades, the dark Overlord of the Underground Kingdom, where he would judge the souls of the dead.

Although Erik was never bestowed such a grand title, nor a grand name, he had often seen his time at the Opera Populaire to be a grand rule of his own, to be his own kingdom. He smiled softly at the memories, yet they coursed harsh and melancholic. His fallen kingdom, like fallen angels, like his face scoured by them. Why did he have to face such pain? The tears slowly flowed forth again, his impassioned and caged soul reaching out to the form on the chaise, which wheezed heavily. Donning his cloak and hat and speedily returning to ground level, he set out to find a doctor.

The wide brim of his fedora served as a second mask, although he wore his latex skin-tone mask. It itched terribly, but he could not risk rousing the fear of the doctor and put him on alert. Although Austria would remain neutral in this Franco-Prussian war as he was assured, he could never be so sure about their views of harboring the world's most deadly criminal. Although the damage to human life in terms of deaths when he had destroyed the Opera Populaire in his rage was but little, in fact singular, the only victim being the Italian tenor himself, there was still the other questions of him global crimes such as the murders in Persia, which were still a global topic for the older and younger set, those who were well informed enough to have a proper education, of which the good doctor surely had, to be of such a profession. Fearing that Christine would get pneumonia or some adverse side effect from the cold, he hurried on, turning down the alleys to find the nearest doctor. Finding one, he hammered hard on the door. A kindly face opened the door, a tall, dark-skinned man who introduced himself as Darius.

Darius. The name rung a bell. Was this not the Persian's aide? He had received news that the Daroga's aide had set up a practice somewhere in the English lands, in Europe, but the Daroga knew not where. Erik ventured a guess to see if Darius knew the Daroga by using the name Nadir. Finding that he was the Daroga's Darius, they made haste back to Erik's house, the man, the doctor himself already knowing of the strange tale of the Phantom of the Opera.

Christine tossed and turned in the bed, her chest tightening as she coughed violently. The freezing cold of her misadventure seeped into her bones. Slowly, she pulled herself up, searching the room wildly for Erik. Where was he? He wanted to find him, that was the exact reason she had come down, but he had left? He had left her alone? It hurt, as she painfully pulled herself over to the desk nearby. His sheet music lay in a file, and one could barely believe the hands of a murderer could write such beautiful sheet music. She hummed the melody softly, before coughs wracked her body again. She had been weak when she came here, and with the fact that she had not eaten much, she had yet to regain her strength. Her well-weakened body slowly sank into sleep again, noting the gentle script at the head of each piece of music.

"For Christine, my love."

Her head fell onto the table wearily, fever taking over her. When she awoke, she found Erik sponging her forehead gently, regret swimming in his lovely green eyes. In the dim light, the seemed almost crystalline green-blue, and the thought of being lost in them…she inadvertently shrunk back like the child she still had in her. He saw the fear, the shadow crossing her eyes, and it wrenched his heart to know she still feared him, and it still hurt to know that with the Vicomte almost murdering him, he could kill that boy without a doubt. A simple noose, that slipknot that will cease his breathing… He wrung the cloth with a fury, the veins in his hands becoming more visible, the spidery web of his age and his constant piano practice, writing and the like. Returning to Christine's side, he looked up at Darius.

"How is she?" he enquired, with the tone of a man broken and regretful of his own folly.

"She will live, but she is very weak. How did she ever end up in this state?"

He shook his head. No, he still could not tell of his own sins, which had brought Christine to this state. Looking up at the Persian man before him, he sadly cradled her close like a doll, not speaking at all. Darius continued, his eyes fixated on the strange man and his love before him, the way that the man stroked her cheek so gently, knowing she was in slumber, and a painful one at that. Leaving the medicine with instructions penciled onto a piece of paper on the table with Erik's sheet music, he tried to leave the den. It was locked.

"The aide of my Daroga. Can I trust your silence? Can I trust you will not speak of the strange tale of this Phantom? Or must I rid the world of you?" His gaze did not break from the sleeping form in front of him, but Darius felt a chill go down his spine at the man's words, slowly backing into the door. "Don't fear me, Daroga, for I am not threatening you. I am merely asking, for my safety and hers," he said, motioning to Christine, "that you please remain silent on this matter. Go to my bureau drawer, there is an envelope; in it are five hundred francs. If you were to convert it to Austrian dollars, I do believe that is payment enough for your services, Daroga. Tripping the switch to open the door, he watched as the man walked woodenly to the bureau in the den, thanking him with a strangled voice before leaving. Erik returned his attentions to Christine, feeling the blackness of his soul consuming him with his recent actions towards Darius. Slowly rising to see the instructions Darius had left, he set about to brew the medicine, making sure that Christine would be all right.

Christine, in the haze of her illness, could hear Erik's voice, laced with poison and Darius, scared and strangled. She frowned; he still cut such an imposingly dark and scary figure to everyone. When would he finally relinquish his Ghost persona? She saw him as a man, not a Ghost. She whined, but clearly he did not hear her at all, he had gotten up, to brew her medicine, she supposed. She was so weak, so fragile; her she was burdening everyone again. She had a power over Erik but what use was that in this situation? Tears leaked from her closed eyelids, and fighting the fever as much as she could, she thrashed wildly, falling off the chaise onto the carpeted floor. Crying to herself as she found herself awake, she writhed, trying to get back up onto the chaise, but she was too weak. Feeling like a caged bird, caged by her love and the changed Raoul and her own weakness, she slowly rolled over weakly, grabbing the blankets from the chaise and screaming, screaming the silent scream that only she could hear…

Erik was in the kitchen, waiting for the water to boil. He decided that some nourishment for Christine would be good as well, as such sliced some cheese and bread for her. The bread was easy to slice, but Erik, taking out his anger at his own weakness upon it, attacked the bread viciously. The knife slipped, grazing his hand merely, but it was sharp enough to draw blood. Cursing his momentary clumsiness, he searched for a bandage to deal with the troublesome cut, as he sucked thoughtfully on it, slicing more slices of bread than really necessary. Best to be done with it all, since he had already started, he reasoned. Yet he was afraid that the rest would turn stale, having been sliced. Scolding himself again, he wrapped it in damp cheesecloth and returned it to the refrigerator he had fashioned, based on the patents he had sneakily copied while moonlighting at the patent office. Throwing the herbs into the pot, which had begun to boil, he began the trek down to his den again, to check on Christine. As he knocked softly on the door, before opening it, he could never hope or expect to find Christine on the thinly carpeted floor, her hair spread out around her as she thrashed and cried. The combination of a long journey, in addition to her mourning and the fact she had not eaten much, led to the consequence of such. Erik wondered to himself how long she had been trapped down there, in the dark hole all by herself. Half an hour, he reckoned, by her white fingers when he first saw them. Picking the girl up from the ground, she struggled in his arms, lashing out and leaving a scratch on the unmarked side of his face. With whatever ropes or cloth he could procure, he managed somewhat to tie her to the chair, before he returned to the upper levels to fetch her medicine. Bringing it down the steps in a hamper, which he had also made to keep things warm, he placed it at Christine's side, before going to stoke the dying fire. The poor girl, now restrained by his strong ropes and cloth, had fallen into a deep sleep again. Gently shaking her to wake her, as much as he did not want to, he began to scoop the tonic spoon by spoon into her mouth. She gave a slight cough, almost throwing up the medicine as she tried to swallow the bittersweet tonic. Erik patted her back gently, hating to see her in this situation. Perhaps, if only he had not been so callous or had cared for her more, or if only he had not proposed to her, or given her such a shock…a multitude of things swirled in his mind, things he blamed himself for again and again. Christine was desperately ill now, and she had to recover soon before he could marry her. Looking at the haggard appearance of his bride to be, he attempted to swallow the lump in his throat, singing for her, singing as if his heart would break.

Around two hours would pass before Christine finally downed the last bit of tonic, in addition to her meager meal of bread, cheese and a rich, luxurious broth of mushroom-chicken soup Erik had ordered to chef to prepare. Tears welled up in the girl's eyes, as if apologizing for her weakness. Erik's glittering eyes in return had told her not to worry, for no matter the length of time, he had probably loved his queen forever, and would continue to do so. Ma bel ange, he managed, in a croak, his gaze never wavering, he croaked out a sorry, a soft sorry to her. Why was he so sentimental? Not now, not in front of Christine. She slowly slid her hand to his mask, and the air crackled with the passionate electricity as Erik let her remove it. He knew that if he touched her lips or got too close, he could probably get the cold from her too, but the tension and the want was too much to resist, as he lowered his lips to hers reverently in a silent kiss like their first in her bedroom. She blushed prettily, pulling back.

"Get some rest, Christine. I'll send this up for washing and I'll be back, " he promised in a silent whisper as she lay down again. "And in case you thrash…"he continued, tying her firmly to the chaise. She whimpered softly, as if in protest, but she knew it was for the best, so she lay down obediently and slept. Watching her sleep as he had done so many times before, Erik returned the used cutlery to the hamper, before sending it up for washing. The minute he had deposited the cutlery in the sink and the hamper in the storage, he dashed down to the den, hoping to find Christine still fast asleep, and no worse for the wear. He wanted to scream and tear out his hair then, when he found her head angled to the side, and she had thrown up. Not that he minded that the carpet was probably ruined, he had money to get more anyway, but to watch her suffer as such, under the grisly pain of pneumonia…He sighed and called for a bucket of water, stripping that section of the floor of its carpet before pulling out a replacement.

"My Christine, my poor Angel…"

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Wahahaha. And in case you all didn't see that coming, lemme lay out the case for you okay? First, Christine has a few months long journey from PARIS, to AUSTRIA, through mountainous regions which even Erik finds treacherous. Then at the last part of her journey, she goes into depression from him and refuses to eat. And then she's been hanging there for about half an hour to an hour. With her weakened resistance, and everything that plagued her-including emotions. Well. I warned you I torture my characters.

/runs before the Punjabs fly, especially avoiding Erik and his deadly accuracy


	10. Evergreen, Or As Unchanging As The Sea

I am only two chapters ahead of this, and this concludes Part One of our tale...Part Two will begin with a short intro, then the wedding...I realized I am only two chapters ahead of what I am posting-how risky! If I am not ahead, then I may give up due to the stress of writing a chapter by chapter-how strange your authoress is...All my silent followers of this story of the Kingdom of Music...ah...Why so silent good readers? ;-) Please do leave a review! Thank you so much, Kitkat, TNP and Not A Ghost 3 for all your love. I hope I do not disappoint...In other news, the pg . net is virtually and completely down due to the memory of the servers it is hosted on etc. And with the php errors etc etc, sigh. Thankfully, Angel of Mystery-145/honeyphan has lovingly posted it to a new site... :-) phantomlnd . net (In caps just to make sure: PHANTOMLND . NET) So afraid ffn will remove my link. I will sob horribly if they did, lol. And yes, with it up again I will probably be revising the earlier chapters to include more symbolism and all for you phans out there :-D With that, I give you..Chapter Ten!

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Chapter Ten

One of the secrets of life is that all that is really worth the doing is what we do for others.

-Lewis Carroll

Raoul was sure that he could kill the next time he saw Erik. Sitting at the bar in Austria, with all sorts of rick raff around him, he sipped his beer with a strangely refined air in comparison to the rest of them, thugs, and gangsters all. He was surprised then, to see that his companion, the assassin, who he was told to address as Black, having the very same graceful air about him. Who was this mystery man beside him? Other than being an assassin by trade, he did not know anything about this strange man, who held his alcohol and spoke like that common trash, and yet could be so refined in his graces of killing and drinking. He wouldn't make small talk with such men under normal circumstances, however, having hear the word "Fop" applied to him more than once, and very liberally used, he decided to gall up to speak to this mysterious man…

Five minutes later, and Raoul had all but given up on talking. Black had refused to reply to anything he had asked, instead continuing to sip his beer in silence. Raoul had seen the man talk, but to very few of the men who inhabited this bar. And he had never seen this man engage in any polite conversation, just business deals. He was intrigued and fascinated by this man, who was seemingly brought up for the purpose of chasing elusive gold, of which he possessed so much. No wonder this man was sticking with him, he was sure. Deciding instead to return to their room, he bid his contractor a goodbye, heading out of the bar to the nearby motel, which they had rented a room in. Raoul turned the key in the lock, stepping inside the musty, dim room. In the corner lay the other's saddlebag, which Raoul presumed it contained the man's possessions. Curiosity got the better of him as he gingerly picked it up, believing it to be spring loaded. Rummaging in it, he found a single photograph amongst knives and bullets. It was old and worn, and he recognized that this was his nurse when he was but a wee child. On the back was scribbled "Dearest Mummy" in a crude, childlike font using simple ink. He knew this face, this nurse, she was sent away to care for a sickly cousin of his, he was told, when he was four. He barely remembered it, only to a certain extent due to his age. Suddenly it all fell together, how this man knew that Erik was his half brother, and the sickly cousin and the nurse. Erik. She was sent away because she sold him. All those hushed whispers of his parents of the Devil's Child, hadn't Madame Giry in her story said something like that about him? And the fact that he had escaped from the circus, ran away from being the freaky sideshow he was…Was Erik not only about ten then? He said nothing, hearing the door handle click, shoving the picture back inside the bag and kicking it aside and pretending to be busy with getting ready for bed. Secrets, would remain as secrets for now.

Days passed, and Erik was still half asleep in his den when Christine had her next large bout of vomiting. At least she only threw up the water this time, he noticed. It would mean that at least two hours had passed and the food had passed into the rest of her body. He nodded to himself in approval, smiling slightly. At least the medicine seemed to be taking effect, even in small amounts. Ringing the bell for Madame to bring the food hamper again, he slowly began the task of feeding Christine again. At least she could talk now, even if her voice was but a whisper. Soon, he would be able to hear her glorious voice again, he thought to himself. But please, my dear, get well soon! The prayers he finally would send heavenward to the God of Christine and the Girys were finally being answered. Erik made a mental note to actually attend Mass this Sunday, for Christine's sake. He bustled about the den, having neglected it much in Christine's illness. She could not live with such a horrible place to spend her coveted time with her husband! And yet, he reasoned, she would never need to come down here again when they were joined in body and soul by the holy union of God. No, instead they could spend the time lazing in the bed above. Ah, the phoenix bed, he had forgotten to fashion one more for her. He went up occasionally in the times of Christine's illness to make sure the west wing was completed in the Rococo-Gothic-esque fashion he had intended it to be, although in a taste not as vulgar as the original renovators of the Populaire had intended, with the indecent poses of women and men in heat scattered over the pillars of the Populaire.

Finally, Christine could talk normally again, and it had almost been but two weeks since she had fallen. Her health was not fully regained, and Darius prescribed a few more tonics to get her back to functioning health, including strict orders for her to plump up, and to be strong. Erik had complied, stuffing Christine with various meats and breads, ranging from the prime cuts of steak with the freshest chickens and fishes from all over the world. He had engaged chefs of exotic descent, ranging from the Middle East to the Bahamas and the Caribbean islands, even travelling all the way to Asia for other delicacies. From foie gras to halibut, from flank steak to ramen noodles, Christine was sure she had never had such a wide array of food in her short eighteen years of life. Approaching the nineteenth year in about a month or so, with the winter approaching its own end, she delighted in the pleasures that Erik had served to her, and slowly regained her health and strength. Erik had engaged the services of a priest also, making sure that the man was all but short sighted and blind, he did not wish for any questions about his mask. This was as although he was in possession of the flesh colored mask, he preferred the black and the white ones, which needed decidedly less application paste, or best, none at all. This allowed his skin the feeling of freedom and less itchiness as he unmasked himself nightly. He had sealed the deal, and he would be married to Christine in February the following year. December, its cold would end, and she would be married in the spring of February with the early February crocuses and their gentle heads that swayed in the wind. The girl sat obediently by the fire in the sitting room, barely recovered. She was embroidering a handkerchief nervously, realizing that she and Erik were the only ones in the room. The servants had taken the day off, and Madame Giry and her daughter were out purchasing supplies and other luxuries in place of the servants. Christine did not dare venture even the slightest gaze at him. What of their impending marriage and the like? She did not know, having been ill for almost a month with pneumonia.

Slowly, Erik came to descend to join her at the hearth, by the dying firelight. Watching her slim fingers as they threaded the final stitches to her pattern in and out, he mused at how she had grown from the clumsy girl he had once known, to this fine young woman. She set her work aside in the basket, leaning into Erik's chest as he pulled her close. They stayed that way for a while, as Christine admired her handiwork, and Erik paid a compliment to it, saying that it certainly was very fine. They then proceeded to sit in the silence, with Christine lacing her hands with Erik's and giving him a tiny squeeze, which let to his heart clenching itself happily and then unclenching as she unclenched her hand around him. She gave a small smile, the deep silence between them momentous, with the dying fire. Erik moved to stoke it with the poker, and put in a few more coals, before he resumed his seat beside Christine. They watched as the fire roared heartily to life, consuming the coals like the fire that consumed them in the night of Don Juan, the fire they had fallen through and passed simply like the innocent souls Christine knew they were. Erik looked down at Christine, shifting as she snuggled close to him, his hand wrapping around the small of her back, kneading the soft flesh encouragingly and silently as they stared at the red fire, dancing. The silence still hung in the air like the tension it was, foreboding. Christine fingered the ring on her hand, her engagement ring to him. It was but a simple band of silver, but so lovingly crafted of roses, entwined. Two roses, depicting them. Finally, Erik spoke.

"I'm sorry," he began, but she shushed him.

"No time for regrets, even if you regretted the way you proposed to me."

"Can you read my mind, Christine? Don't steal my words."

"Really, Erik, you aren't as mysterious as they all claim you to be."

"Saucy wench."

She giggled, snuggling closer to him in the cold. He was sure she was doing this on purpose. One false move, one more step in the directions of temptation, and she would lose all forms of virtue she had ever known of. She didn't seem to mind, the way that she was allowing herself to be held. Control yourself, Erik's mind shouted at him, as he reminded himself that they would be married in a few months. Surely, then, would he then allow himself to capture her whole, body and soul. But as of now, they would preserve the time, innocent and glorious.

Like that they stayed, in their own world, such that Erik could even ignore the soft footsteps of the Girys as they settled the items in the parlor and the storage, creeping upstairs in politeness so as to not disturb the couple.

Christine slowly rose from her position amongst the sheets. In her cuddling with Erik, she had somehow fallen asleep. She yawned and stretched, finding that Erik had spent the night at her bedside again, seated on a small stool with his arms folded under his head as he slept, curled up. Try as hard as she may, she couldn't pull him up to the bed, which annoyed her. He was so much warmer than the sheets. And as much as she knew this would be shunned in a proper Victorian society, she had thought of this time and again, but she did not care. They were engaged already, weren't they? Although, Raoul had never done such a thing when they were engaged, in fact he never did such a thing. He was so simple, so refined, so easy and safe. She felt almost sinful for comparing them, for beside Raoul, Erik seemed almost like a man, and she could see the difference that she had lacked in making her choice the first time. The first time around, she had not wanted to run with Raoul, but concerned for her safety, she had done so. Then she had regretted it with a regret deeper than the raging seas. She never needed a second time; she had only left for her safety and to pacify Raoul. Did Erik not want that too? And somehow Raoul had returned, somewhat with a vengeance, as he stood stock still in the doorway, glaring at his half brother, and firearm in his hands.

"Erik…" she breathed, heaving as she tried to pull him up again. Grunting with the effort, she slowly pulled his hands from under his head, shaking him in the process. Erik kept his eyes close, laughing inwardly at her efforts. He had long been awake, but this, this situation he found himself in was quite amusing. No, he would not wake; instead he would enjoy this for the time being.

"ERIIIIIIIK." Christine groaned and heaved again and again, barely having gotten the upper half of his body up on the bed. Sighing at her efforts, with Erik splayed unglamorously over her; she could not help but laugh, pulling him up more. Heaving at her effort again, she finally managed to get his legs up on the bed, which was the moment she realized he was looming over her, a playful smirk on his face.

"What a kindly effort, Christine. A certainly novel way of inviting me into your bed."

She made a face, an attempt at looking scandalized. Blushing, she let him prop himself up in her bed, which had barely enough space for the both of them. Pressed close to him, with his glittering eyes of mystery, she blushed, almost realizing how easily he could overpower her. It served to heighten her fear and want of him, blushing deeply at her perceived impropriety of the whole situation. Finding herself flush against him, with his strong, tense body pressing onto hers, she breathed in his scent, the slight sheen of sweat of the warm morning, breathing shallowly. Dear God in heaven. If he was to be so potent when but this close, she could not imagine the delights she could feel when she married him. Feeling almost giddy with delight of her potently dark husband to be, she reached out and placed a quick kiss to his lips.

Erik could but see the way that she was pressed against him, and the friction was delicious, sending shivers down his spine when they made contact. Slowly, he found her lips on his, and it was slow and hurried all at once, all but making up for the lost time. They were both aware at the way that Erik delighted her in that small confines of her bed, her generous mounds peaking gently through the thin chemise. Erik had often admired her form and figure, especially in those harem dancer costumes, which left little to the imagination. However, he had always felt a pang of jealousy, those others other than himself should be treated to such a glorious view of his wife to be. He slid a hand tantalizingly up her thigh, which had been exposed in her sleep. Remembering how he had longed in the nights of watching her, longed to touch her as such, he took his time, savoring the feel of her smooth skin against his rough palm. He let out a low moan, dipping his head to the neckline of her chemise, suckling gently at the soft skin there. What he did not notice was the door as it slowly opened. The sun was high in the sky, and it was way past breakfast and time for luncheon. Madame Giry entered the room cautiously, and with a cough, the lovers sprang apart as if they had been burned. In a clipped voice, she announced luncheon, and they looked at each other with a guilty look in their eyes and a blush on Christine's cheeks, before Erik turned to face Madame Giry.

"Antoinette, I would kindly request you knock first before entering…" he said, in a clipped, strangled voice.

"I did," she replied. "There was no reply, so I assumed you all to be still asleep. Imagine my shock when I entered to see you both in such…situation. I thought I raised all my ballet dancers to be more…virtuous women."

Christine let out an involuntary giggle, blushing furiously.

"Come Erik, " she sang. "Im hungry."

Nodding stiffly, still embarrassed at the situation, for he had never had such experiences before, he followed after. No matter what those other ballet girls said, there was no way he had ever entertained any dark clandestine sexual relations with any woman. And he certainly would not. As a child, before Giry had married, he had wanted her, even during his time in Persia. As such, even as the Shah's favored assassin, he took none of those girls offered to his bed. And he would continue to do so, even as the dark Angel of no virtues and no God. It was not so much for religious reason which he protected himself, it was for the women he loved. Feeling Christine's smaller hand slip into his, he smiled down at the girl, slowly descending the steps to luncheon.

Life, he guessed, could wait until he had snapped out of this blissful dream. Which of course, he hoped to never end.

"Ma bel ange Christine, mon amour."

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Part One concludes! Anyone wants to cry for little baby here. This story is my love, because I really have never written this far nor gotten so many reviews so fast etc etc etc /sobs happily/ I love you all! By the way, I am no longer putting :) or :D anymore, they say those are for childish people who tend to swear more etc according to studies made. Therefore, for my English's sake and the like, I will now type it out as :-) and :-D etc. Just so you know, random facts lol. Up next, phluff and a wedding. Hmmm. /calling Wedding Crashers Anonymous to hire some...one.

Oops, plot revealed. ;-)


	11. From The Garish Light Of Day

Ahem. /cough cough

I present to you, part two. Why so silent good messieurs, did you think that I had left you for good~?

The second chapter with my favorite song from POTO...if you all are noting my chapter titles? :-)

Have you guessed my favorite song? :-P

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Chapter Eleven

A gift consists not in what is done or given, but in the intention of the giver or doer.

-Lucius Annaeus Seneca

Death was he, and he was death. A visage of death's head still lay in the trunk he had hidden in the recesses of his den. The life bloomed around him like flowers as they days grew warmer, and spring began to rear its mane, with the earliest flowers already peeking out through the thin layers of snow that was left. The fresh smell of winter and spring mingling with each other pervaded his nostrils as he strode out of the house in the morning, his shirt ruffling in the wind. From the balcony upstairs, Christine beckoned to him.

"Good morning!" she called, her breath still a mist in the wind. In a month or so, the holy union of God would join them. Erik smiled at fortune smiling upon him, which was a rare thing. Never in his life had he considered fortune to be in his favor, always seeing it to be a twist of hatred by the gods and goddesses of fortune that he may be bestowed with such a ghastly visage on a side of his face. Christine donned a wrapper around her thin chemise, shivering slightly as she stepped out into the cold. Erik had neither coat nor anything save for his white ruffled shirt, and Christine could see the fine dusting of hairs on his chest, and his muscles, which rippled as she blushed deeply, looking up at him. He returned the gaze with a worried one.

"You are shivering," he noted, walking inside to fetch his cloak. She felt his deft fingers tie it gently around her collarbone, feeling warm in the thick velvet cloak of Erik's. She let out a soft sigh, catching a drop from a melting icicle in her mouth. She had never known her Angel to be the sentimental type, and yet in these few weeks following her illness he had proved her wrong in every aspect. Either he was pleasing her just because he was afraid she would fall ill again, or he was brimming with joy at the impending marriage. She hoped that it was the latter. Gently, Erik broke the icicle off the branches, all with his bare hands. Since the night of Don Juan, he had not worn the cold leather gloves that he used to favor. Come to think of it, Christine mused to herself, she had not seen them since she awoke in his room and unmasked him. Perhaps, like the mask, the gloves were a sign of his hiding away, a sign of his fear, and with the unmasking she had unmasked the man underneath the almighty Phantom of the Opera. She smiled, watching him break the icicles off the branches so that they would not snap. How she loved the gardens! He had told her of how the gardens would be aflame in different colors each season, from the flowers in spring to the fruits in summer, and in autumn the fire reds of the leaves and in winter a cool blue. She picked an early crocus, weaving it into her hair as she danced around in his cape in the garden. The postman came knocking at their gate, and handed Erik a stack of letters. The first few he set aside, stuffing in his pocket. However, the last he looked upon with curiosity. The paper was the heavyweight type, and made of fine-grained type, more like a professional art paper used for pastel. When Erik opened it, he could smell faintly the scent of alcohol and fine cologne, and almost instantly guessed its sender. The font was curled and refined, with the f's and t's and i's all properly cared for, with the swirling script that Christine with a single look realized as Raoul's. Shaking out the stack of papers in the thick envelope, Christine felt her heart sink as she gasped softly at the papers. It was a wedding certificate. And on the blank for wife was her name.

She knew she had never signed such a thing, why would she? But with Erik's weary eyes of sorrow, she could not say a word again, as he fled into the house, striking a match, intending on burning the paper and tossing the burning paper into the hearth. Christine held his hand fast, preventing him from doing so.

"Say it's not real. SAY IT, CHRISTINE. TELL ME, THAT THIS INFERNAL PAPER IS A LIE." He snarled at Christine, waving the paper in front of her face.

"It is a lie, Erik. I obviously have never signed such a thing."

"Then prove it to me, Christine de Changy."

The easy tears which could have welled up in her eyes and to make her beg and plead and cry and gotten Erik's forgiveness instantly perhaps were held back, although they stung the corners of her eyes. Heading up the stairs to go to her room, she then proceeded to bring out a simple folder, which contained documents of all sorts. This, she motioned, pointing to it after bringing it down to Erik, were the original copies of her impending marriage to Raoul. They had never signed such a marriage document, and upon closer inspection Erik realized slowly, that the paper had been signed falsely with a signature mirroring Christine's, right down to the way she looped her r's.

Who in their right mind would forge such a thing? In the accompanying letter, Raoul detailed how this was direct proof that Christine was his, and he would not hesitate to bring this matter to the direct authorities in charge of this matter, as well as to bring it up to the church, where Erik would be condemned for adultery and Christine would be labeled an adulteress too, and a cheap whore. And Raoul had planned that at that moment, he would swoop in and kindly, very kindly take Christine in as his mistress, although he had intended to treat her like his wife. In that case, she would still be able to continue her singing career. And Erik would be placed under restraining order, and Raoul would have accomplished everything. It was not uncommon for men of his status to do such things, and some of his closer and elder Comtes and Vicomtes he had associated with had recommended him to do as such. It was hardly the teachings of the Abba Father, but Raoul was sure he would be pardoned his sin for his status in society itself, in addition to the tireless monetary contributions the de Changys had pledged to the Catholic Church yearly. Erik knew of all this somewhat, and spat on the paper and letters, tossing it onto the snowy ground and rubbing the heel of his boot onto it. Then, he tossed a lighted match onto it and watched it burn, coldly in his anger for Raoul and the rest of his despicable family.

Raoul sat on the floor of the hotel room, drinking again. Ever since that day at Erik's, he had taken to drinking as a habit. In a few days, he had aged considerably with his sunken eyes, red from crying. When had he ever remembered feeling like this? On normal days he would have been a teetotaler, only imbibing drink at the parties for polite reason. His mind was blank; having received news that Erik had burnt the document he had sent him. And he had failed to break up the happy couple again. Raoul rubbed his temple, dragging himself to the bed, where he stared at the wall. Where have I gone wrong, he asked himself, slowly descending into sleep.

He woke with a terrible headache. A hangover. Stumbling out of the bed, he looked in the mirror over the washbasin. A man beyond his twenties returned the cold glare he gave. Long gone were the well-sculpted handsome face he once possessed, instead he saw a demon in his view. Long had he seen himself deteriorate since the night of the Bal Masque, but his condition now was something else to be spoken of altogether. Cleaning himself up before heading down, Raoul let out a stifled cry as he slipped, hitting his head on the basin. Hard. The room swam before his eyes, and the last he felt was a man dragging him out.

Meg had headed down to the local bar to pick up a few pints of alcohol for battered fish. Imagine to her surprise then, she had seen the Vicomte with a bandage around his head, and there was blood. Curiosity got the better of the young girl as she questioned politely as to what had happened to him. The blonde man shook his head slowly, frowning at her. In his mind, he debated as to telling a lie about the Phantom or to tell the truth. Deciding that the truth perhaps would be too embarrassing for him, he instead decided to lie, weaving an elaborate tale on how Erik had hunted him out in the morning, and had attacked him. He had slipped and fell, and Erik, thinking him for dead, had left him on the floor. Thank God, he continued, that someone should find him before he could really pass away as that monster had intended! Meg looked at him sadly with tears in her blue eyes, and receiving her pints of drink, she shook her head at him. Monsieur, she told him, how could you accuse a man talking with his wife in the garden at that time of doing such a crime? She put a hand to his head, and he swiped at it wildly. Blue eyes met each other, one swirling with anger and confusion, and the other with sadness and loneliness and confusion. Turning, Meg ran. What a fool she was! She chided herself on her weakness, but not wanting to face the Vicomte to fight for any of her friends, she ran on until she reached the mansion, still the wild girl and ballerina as she was in the past. Reaching the door, she put the lock in the key, not wishing to alert anyone. The heavy doors swung open with a thunderous roar to her frightened self, and she chided herself on this other weakness before she stepped into the house. As a girl, she was airy and kind, a little blonde angel, they had called her. Without much thought in her head save for simple ones, she was easily swayed. But with the hues and the glitter of the Vicomte's eyes, she had known of his lies.

"Christine," she called out, setting the pints of alcohol onto the kitchen counter. When nobody appeared, she wandered around the door to Erik's refrigerator, swinging it open. She was to get fish fillets for tonight, and the staff had told her they put it in here. Imagine to her surprise, when she found the fridge a mess, and two pretty much grown up people were inside, slapping each other with large tunas. Or at least, perhaps, trying to catch a hold on the slippery fishes which were to be filleted.

"Let me help!" she instantly cried out, catching the fish by the tail as Christine looked at her. Christine and Erik's cheeks were both tinged pink from the frosty temperature of the cold refrigerator, and they laughed and giggled as the fish landed with a splat on Meg's feet. Never mind how dirty it would get now; they could always wash it later. Meg let out a horrified shriek, picking it up daintily as she could. Carrying the tunas out to the kitchen, Erik rang the bell for the servants to begin cooking and preparing the meal in addition to drawing them each a bath. Christine gave a giggle and hugged a very fishy smelling Erik close, placing a small kiss on his lips. Tomorrow would be her nineteenth birthday. Almost twenty, she chided herself, and still acting half like a child. Erik, ruffling her hair gently, seemed to remind her of that too.

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Eh, a sweet ending. I'm sorry its a bit abrupt, but this is the intro I sorta promised. The next chapter-I warn you, is a short filler...which you guys will probably kill me for lol. Haha, but after its the wedding...and then I'm splitting up everything in shorter chapters from now on and to build up suspense etc...Excited? :-P

Gonna post a few more phanarts to my Instagram btw. It's kuroneko _ rainbows if anyone is interested. Remove the spaces...


	12. Modesty Starts to Mellow With the Wine

I think I wrote enough in my spare time and studied enough to warrant an update. Although I don't think I can write much more for a while, I sprained my hand terribly and have an exam on Monday. :-( I think the next few chapters will be fillers lol, I'm trying to get Nadir in too. Cuz the family all together is fun lol.

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Chapter Twelve

God gave us the gift of life; it is up to us to give ourselves the gift of living well.  
-Voltaire

Erik sank deep into the tub, scrubbing away the smell of fish. He doused the bath with rose oils, his favorite scent. As feminine as it was, it reminded him of Christine. The steam from the hot water rose and misted the tiles of the luxurious bathroom, which included a walk in closet for him. He turned on the faucet to let more hot water rush in, and he splashed about, thinking of what to give his almost nineteen-year-old fiancée. Fingering the dried rose petals he kept as potpourri at the side of the bath, he stared at its translucent surface, admiring the pink hue it had. A new dress, perhaps? Or he could take her for an outing…he sighed to himself, making a mental note to ask of Madame Giry visit the dressmakers' soon to check if Christine's wedding gown was done. Erik groaned in frustration, he would also need to visit the flower shop for her bouquet, and as well as the priest again, to check and confirm the matter of his wedding. Getting out of the bath, not even bothering to don a robe, he grabbed a sheaf of papers and a pen and wrote down his list of to-dos, before getting back into the tub to massage his temples.

Christine herself was deep in thought as she scrubbed herself with the lavender soaps provided to her. Letting out a soft sigh, she looked into the soapy water at herself, certainly doubting that Erik could ever want such a person like her. Wondering about the secrets of the marriage bed, she knew that it would involve a fair amount of pain and blood, and she blushed at the thought of all these ideas. Would Erik be gentle or passionate? She had often seen in their exchanges, the unbridled passion that lay beneath his smoldering eyes as he had gazed at her, his voice gruff and tender all at once. She blushed even more, feeling the unfamiliar heat pool between her legs, and a certain wetness she could not describe…feeling heady and deciding the warm water was feeding her imagination, she stepped out, splashing cold water on herself as she got a towel, dried and dressed herself and headed to her bedroom to think everything out alone. The gong soon sounded for dinner, and Christine realized how famished she had been, hurrying down the stairs in her hunger. The smell of freshly battered fish wafted up her nostrils as she found Erik waiting at the table for her with Meg and Madame Giry. Muttering a hasty apology as Erik pulled her seat out for her, she sat and they prayed, giving thanks for the meal. Christine could not help but to sneak a glance at Erik, noticing that he did not bow his head in thanksgiving, instead he stared straight ahead with a cold unreadable gaze. How unfortunate then, that she had ended up on his right, that all she could see were those dancing green orbs that seemed to tease her for peeping! She quickly found herself hoping that Madame would cut short this prayer that she may slip into the lighthearted banter that peppered their dinners together, after the Girys had arrived! Finally, the time came where they could partake of the food, and Meg began to tell about their fish misadventure in the cool room, much to their delight and laughter at her simple manner of telling the tale. Looking around the table, Christine let out a satisfied sigh. Never in her whole life, not even the time spent with the de Changys, had she felt such peace or the happiness and wholeness of a family. Madame was like her mother, and Erik her husband to be, Meg a sister…the butler that Erik hired seemed almost fatherly in an aspect as he went about tending to his duties, although she did not see him often. She smiled to herself, and thanked her God silently for the family she had been bestowed. Often during that night she found herself comparing the de Changys to this family she had been presented with, and although she caught herself before her mind could wander so far, she still remembered how the conversations had all been clipped, polite, cold and utterly formal, about politics and the likes of the days' happenings. Not much was said and done in the way of camaraderie and laughter, and Christine had felt empty and lost in their world of the upper class. Although the settings here were equally as lavish, she felt at peace with the kith and kin she had been surrounded with, feeling at peace to talk and partake of the banter as the meal, for it had been a rule in the de Changys that she and all the womenfolk be stifled, and that the younger ones to be seen and not to be heard. How different, she thought, finishing up the last few crumbs of fish, smiling at the rest as Erik was doing, a rare occurrence all in all. He called for a bottle of champagne to be brought forth, and before she knew what he was doing, she found a fluted glass in front of her and wine being poured into it.

"To you," Erik said, raising his glass. "For tomorrow…"

She blushed profusely as they all gave a clap, waiting for the clock soon to strike twelve. Taking a sip, she gave an involuntary shudder as the unfamiliar taste slid down her throat.

"Happy birthday, Christine!" Meg cried exuberantly, jumping up to give her friend a hug. Christine returned the hug, patting her friend on the back. "Thank you, Meg," she said, laughing. Slowly she released her friend. Madame Giry smiled at the girl, shaking her hand. "Happy birthday, Christine."

She then turned to Erik, who had a twinkling in his eyes, which made them almost sparkle like gems. He murmured a warm greeting to her, softly holding her hand. Sliding his palm up her arm, holding it to his eyes, he placed a soft kiss on her fingertips, making her blush from the electric tingle that was sent down her spine. She giggled, the alcohol making her heady and blush. Madame Giry coughed, and she called for dessert. A beautiful cake was brought out, a chocolate and berry cake that was lovingly prepared by…

"Me," Erik said. "Christine…I-" he found himself at a loss for words, not knowing what to say, but his face gave away the fact that he made the cake. Christine gave a small smile up at him, taking a daub of the cake with her finger. She licked it, savoring the taste of rich chocolate.

"It's good, Erik! You must teach me how to cook!" she exclaimed. He quitely promised so, before they sang the customary birthday song. After the cake was cut and each had a piece, Christine leant back against her chair, letting out a soft sigh and complimenting Erik on the cake again. They discussed about the wedding, and Erik had informed Nadir through Darius that he was invited. As the two continued to discuss their wedding and other finer details of their life they would have together, it was then Madame Giry proclaimed herself to be extremely tired, pulling Meg away from the table as Erik poured for himself and Christine another glass of champagne.

Christine giggled, the more the alcohol she imbibed, and the more it went to her head. She felt lightheaded and airy, as if her feet would not touch the ground. When Erik dragged her out of the chair, she was utterly high, raking her short fingernails over his chest, laughing softly as she watched him strain at control of himself. She let out a little mewl of pleasure as Erik pressed her harshly against the banister of the stairs and against the wall, growling deeply.

"Christine…" he said, exhaling a shaky breath. Her hands were roaming all over his body and she smiled at him with a watery smile, giggling all the more. Erik let out a strangled gasp as her hands found his straining erection, and she slid effortlessly out of his arms to prod at it like a child at a new toy. He blushed, dragging her up and reproving her with more harshness than he intended to.

"You will make me take you…and you would lose your virtue even before you are married, Christine." he said, dangerously as his voice wavered. She gave a disappointed cry, slowly shrugging off her own dress off her shoulders of her own accord. Erik held back a low moan, his alarm rising. The lacing of the dress prevented it from sliding down fully, and she gave a little cry of dismay before she clung to him with renewed fervor. The alcohol had clouded her mind such that she no longer could think, instead the fiery passions that lived on in her mind was about to translate into reality, and Erik was dangerously close to fulfilling her desires. With a huff, he put Christine over his shoulder, lifting her bodily. She kicked, exposing herself when the skirt flared up. Erik let out a groan for she wasn't wearing her pantalets. Christine began to giggle again, running her hands tantalizingly down his back, slipping into the waistband of his pants to give him a little squeeze on the buttocks.

"Daae!" he hissed, as he settled her on the bed. She would have to go to bed clothed, if he undressed Christine, his resolve would disappear with her clothes. Steeling himself, he walked out of the room, awkwardly as he felt the evidence of his want straining against his clothing. Settling into the sofa in the main hall, finding himself and his mind clouded in lust, he knelt on the cold marble floor, cupping his own manhood as he ridded himself of his clothing and relieved himself. Crying out her name as he came, he lay on the floor for a while before dragging himself to the bathroom again to clean up, drawing his own bath. The cold water sloshed over him, calming his heated body. Only two more weeks, but how could he stand his goddess that was placed before him, tempting him.

God have mercy on him and his desires.

The night was calm, save for a knocking at the door early in the morning, almost the time that the butler and Erik had risen. Both raced to the door, one in duty and the other in anticipation. No matter who was to open the door, the Phantom with his extensive knowledge of the house got there first to welcome his friend.

Erik easily covered the last few paces of the threshold with wide strides to meet his friend, a man standing there in his red turban and twirled moustache. The Daroga, the Persian. Nadir Khan. Erik greeted him with a firm handshake, a sign of their good terms and a form of memory of the past they had shared in Persia. Nadir was olive skinned, with dancing eyes that made him seem sprightly for someone older than Erik and possibly, Madame Giry. The Nice weather had been good to the man, and Erik found his friend still in good health, he fondly noticed. He smiled, leading the man to be seated, instructing the butler to rouse a maid if needed to bring tea for his early houseguest. Nadir blinked in shock, he had not known Erik to be a hospitable man in the days of Persia.

"Why, Erik, you;ve changed! And what is this I hear of you marrying?" He gave a low chuckle, his French still accented with Persian overtones. Erik nodded, emotions still in check.

"Do you know of the Phantom of the Opera?" he said, in a low voice, grimly. Nadir nodded, he had been keeping up with the news.

"Don't tell me…That white mask! Oh, Erik! I should have known earlier, Allah have mercy. You have killed more then! And this girl you marry…she is The Christine Daae, is she not?"

Erik nodded again.

"That night of the chandelier, Daroga, I was mad with anger and fear. But it seems she had forgiven all I have done. And she agreed to marry me."

"Are you sure you are not forcing her hand in this? I have heard the stories of how the Opera Ghost had hypnotized her and put her under his spell…"

"Daroga, I assure you, it is none of the sort."

"Well then, Erik my man, I am truly happy for you. Allah be praised, you are finally a family man!"

Erik let out a growl.

"No. not a family. Never a family. No child can suffer as I have, Daroga." Erik choked back the emotion, rising. He would check on Christine, to calm himself.

Erik started up the stairs, his feet padding softly on the steps. Knocking softly on her door, he pushed it open. The room reeked of vomit, and he saw Christine hugged close to herself, holding her head.

He did the first thing he had always done.

Twelve steps to Nadir.

"DAROGA! You must assist me."

* * *

What? You accuse me of torturing you, Erik? Certainly n-

Your authoress, is currently incapacitated due to her unwillingness to follow my orders, and for somewhat putting me in such a difficult situation. I had warned her of a -

Erik, get off my computer. I doubt that sexual tension and Christine having the worst hangover in the world counts as torture.

Please review! It makes me so happy!


	13. Let The Dream Descend

I have a feeling you all will like this chapter. I just finished my econs exam and am so sad D:

Hug me please I am depressed and my body is broken down and ache all over OTL

I want to study but you all gave me so many reviews my email is spammed. Can't find my notes but I am so happy for your love :-) My english sucks today because I am brain dead.

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

_**Once in awhile,  
Right in the middle of an ordinary life,  
Love gives us a fairy tale.  
**__~ Anonymous ~_

Christine awoke the next day, her head spinning and pounding as an effect of the alcohol she consumed the night before. Lying back in the soft pillows, she whimpered to herself, rolling over to shut the light out. Erik had placed her in another room, not able to make it all the way up to her room. As such, the light was shining into the room and she strained her eyes, trying to go back to sleep. A wave of nausea took over her through the dull throbbing of her head, and she cried softly, hauling herself to the bathroom before she threw up. Then, wearily as she toddled back to the bed, she closed the blinds, falling back asleep.

She woke again to Erik softly stroking her hair.

"Wake up," he cooed, pulling her gently. The headache had not gone away, albeit subsided. He had a tray of food in front of her, and clumsily she rubbed her eyes, accidentally swiping the glass of water onto the floor. The glass shattered with a resounding ping, and Erik pulled the cord for a maid to clear it up. Reassuring her that it was okay when the maid had cleared it up and left, she sunk her head into his chest, sobbing. The buzzing in her head wouldn't go away, and it made her irritable.

"I'm dying, Erik. It hurts so much…"

Judging by her reaction, Christine's virgin experience of real drinking was probably, last night, and, he chided himself in the back of his mind, she would have another virgin experience of another sort if you did not control yourself, you monster! He scowled inwardly at the thought, letting her sob into him for a while more, before he sat up straight and began to feed her a bowl of tonic.

"Drink up. This will help to alleviate the pain and the results of a hangover." She nodded, slurping up the brown liquid thirstily. Poor child, she probably did not have a drop of water since the night before, or any food. When she had finished the tonic, he began to feed her, the grilled cod. She hungrily ate, spearing a preserved pea and some carrots, trying to feed him too. Shaking his head and explaining that he already partook of breakfast and lunch, he continued to feed her. She chewed slowly and obediently, beginning to find her headache slowly subsiding. Closing her eyes, as she grew drowsy again, her head fell against his shoulder, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

"Happy nineteenth once again, my dear," he said, stroking her hair as he felt her soft, supple form against him.

"Sing for me—" she said, yawning widely. He complied.

_La dagen få sin hvile nå_

_Og natten vil våke for den_

_Nokturne_

_Selv mørket må en gang forgå_

_Så natten kan føde en dag_

Christine's form slumped at the dying notes, whispered softly to her. It wouldn't do her good to sleep the whole day, but she had to wear off the effects of the alcohol, right? He made up his mind to wake her before evening should arrive, such that she could spend the evening with the rest of the household. Right now, he decided, slowly finding himself losing the battle of wills, he slipped under the covers with Christine, kicking off his shoes and socks and undressing. Christine, however, was still fully dressed, evidence that neither maid nor anyone else had really come in here to undress her and place her nightgown on her. All the more it played into Erik's favor, at least he could avoid temptation, but the way that the gown clung to her, he could very well feel it under the sheets made him remember the night of passion and drinking…almost wanting her again. All he managed was a sigh, stroking her hair repeatedly.

Christine awoke in an hour, finding the headache she had gone and Erik smiling down at her. With a shaky breath, she asked if her birthday was over. He gave her a fond look, shaking his head. He then pulled the blinds open and she noticed the day progressing and the skies beginning to be dusted in reddish golden hues. Walking out to the gardens where Madame and Meg Giry already were, they as four people brought together by the strange twist of fate looked on, enraptured by the sun as it waned for the day.

Night had fallen and dinner was served. Erik introduced Christine politely to his friends, Nadir and Darius. The girl recognized Darius as the doctor that had served her, and she realized Nadir had been the Persian. The olive skinned man humbly greeted her, gently kissing her hand, which earned a low growl from Erik.

"Sit, please, Nadir," he said, in a clipped tone, ushering the man to his seat. Nadir gave a hearty laugh at his friend's posessiveness as they all dined together, the table flowing with the delights Erik had ordered the chef to make. Christine clapped her hands almost childishly as Erik had ordered all her favorite foods, from escargots to falafel. The maids brought out small bowls of ärtsoppa, a pea soup. Christine sipped at it gingerly, for fear that she would burn her tongue. She let the simple broth slide down her throat and she sighed, remembering her childhood when her father would make this, for they were poor and had not much. Sliced isterband was on the other side of the table, and Erik nimbly speared a few for Christine, as she could not reach it. Nadir, due to religious reason had ended up eating the pitepalt and chicken kalops. That evening, another cake was served, a Prinsesstårta. The singular rose that lay in the middle of the sea of green delighted Christine to no end. Instead of pink as she had often seen in the shops, this was decorated with a red rose. A singular red candied rose. She cradled it in her hands, picking at the petals. In the end, Erik decided for her as they shared the rose amongst everyone, each having a single petal until the heart, the bud encasing the cream was left. Taking a small butter knife, he cut it deftly in two, and they shared it. Watching Christine lick the cream off her fingers, his mind wandered to a much more sexual connotation of the consumption of the rose. He swallowed the last bits of the sugary treat slowly as she smiled at him, her hair and her head encased in the gossamer sheen of the candlelight. He coughed politely into his hand, motioning for the champagne to be brought forth. With a toast to the night and to Christine, the dinner together ended.

Christine sipped the glass of champagne, the sweet tang of it going down her throat again. As a child still, she wanted more, her wide gaze pleading with Erik after the alcohol had begun to eat at her senses again. She giggled and sipped the last few drops out of the fluted glass. Two glasses, and she was already half drunk. Erik could still remember the disaster that was the night before, and Nadir's reproving. Taking the glass out of her hand politely as they all left the table to their activities, he decided that they both should retire. Christine nodded sadly, understanding.

"Goodnight, Erik," she said, as they parted at the landing in front of her bedroom.

"Goodnight, Christine," he said, turning to walk down the stairs again. She sadly stared at his retreating figure, left in the darkness of the night. The moonlight streamed into her bedroom as she knelt by the bedside like a child once more, lighting the candle beside the frame containing her father's daguerrotype to say her prayers.

_Gud, som haver barnen kar,_

_se till mig som liten ar._

_Vart jag mig i varl den rander_

_star min lycka i Gud's hander._

_Lyckan kommer lyckan gar,_

_den Gud alskar lyckan far,_

_Amen_

Her father had always made this into a happy tune, and with the emotions of want and of love that seemed to consume her whole, she sang this, tunefully, soulfully, and to more than one...To Erik, she thought. May this prayer be for us.

~X~

The day of the marriage dawned fair and bright, with no hints of thunderstorms about to arrive. Erik had scheduled a late night wedding, for he had engaged a priest far in the city area of Vienna, and they lived at the outskirts of Salzburg's city. Christine donned her white gown, a perfect fairy tale gossamer piece of artistry as she twirled in the mirror, admiring herself. The bodice and the skirt of tulle sparkled with the gentle shimmer of gauze, dotted with little jewels, and the daring neckline, which left the dress off her shoulders like that of the gown she had worn when she first performed in Hannibal, was lovingly crafted with roses. Erik laughed when she said she couldn't wear such a thing for the cost of it, waving it off as a small expense. She later discovered the receipt for it though, not very well hidden amongst the junk on his table. Which in turn made her eyes fall out of her head. That exorbitant amount could have fed a family or two for a month! She gave him a look with spoke volumes about her views to his exorbitance and he waved it aside, presenting her with her veil.

Suddenly, it was almost as if she was teleported back in time, to a time where he had done as such, roughly shoving the veil on her head as she had cried and begged for mercy. A time where she had called him a liar. And a time where her world had come crashing down on her in flames, and they had regenerated and they lived again like a pair of phoenixes rising out of the ashes. Sealed with a kiss, their eternal promise to each other as his green, crystalline gaze focused on hers. She silently stared at him as he placed the veil on her again, this time gently, with reverence. Out of her brown eyes he could sense fear and memory, and he wiped a stray tear away as it rolled down her cheek, holding her as close as possible without ruining the light sheen of makeup on her. Never again would the Phantom spirit live in him, he vowed, slowly taking her hand. For the occasion, he had dressed in his dress clothes as he had during the days of the Phantom Angel of Music. He smiled warily at her; afraid she would burst into tears. Giving him a reassuring pat as they climbed into the carriage, they closed the door, giving the roof a resounding thud as the horses sped away to the chapel. Behind, a cream white stallion followed. And the stallion was followed by two horses black as night, with the olive skinned servants of Erik along with them.

The chapel, as magnificent as it was, had certainly seen better days. With a dwindling number of parish leaders, in accompaniment to a dwindling number of churchgoers that preferred this church save for the older set, which had fond memories of this place, Erik found it to be a safe choice that others should not poke and pry into this strange marriage. Not to mention that Father Vanadius, the priest performing the rites, was an elderly man of ninety-five, and virtually blind in both eyes. When Erik opened the door, it set off a draft, which alerted the elderly man to his presence. The groom himself quickly assisted the priest, who was hobbling down the steps on a cane, and as such Erik received heaps of praise. If only the good father knew of the sins Erik had committed, he thought to himself, humming the tune of the wedding march. Christine, beside herself in glee and excitement, fought back an urge to tell the man to hurry up. Behind them, Madame Giry stood with Meg, with the solemnity of an owl. Meg was beaming radiantly at her friend. This happy company was so joyous, so much so they failed to notice a man, skulking into the chapel with the face of thunder. The chapel was, although old, filled with the warm rays of the dying sun, as it filtered in and lit the stained glass angels with warm backlight, making it seem almost alive. Christine let out a soft sigh of happiness, remembering the little chapel in the Opera. Erik seemed to have the same sentiment, looking at Christine. She looked breathtaking; an Angel bathed in the dying rays of sunlight, with the gentle colors of the stained glass dancing upon her, like waves and spring faeries. Only when her hand touched his arm did he realize Christine must be real and not the likeness he had begun to believe his mind must have conjured in his fervent wish to have her here with him. She was stunning, exquisite, her beauty unsurpassed by any mortal. The priest cleared his throat politely, beginning the ceremony.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the presence of these witnesses, to join together this man and this woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God in the time of man's innocence, signifying unto us the mystical union that exists between Christ and his Church …"

Erik almost cried out in joy. The tremulous crescendo of emotions in him, the tumultuous waves with its feelings of exhilarating joy, wonder, sadness, melancholy, bitterness, shock…it all became clear in a moment to him that Christine, his Christine in all her graceful beauty of a swan, stood beside him, her small hand in his as she stood there, there! Beside him! To become _his wife._ The gravity of the hallowed truth unfolding before him like graceful flower that she was, shook him to the core, stunning him utterly. In happiness, tears sprang to his eyes, a slight sheen that cloaked them. He smiled, feeling at bliss.

"…Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health: and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her so long as ye both shall live?"

Erik spoke but two simple words, which were the exact sentiment of his heart since the first day he had met her crying in the chapel and she blossomed under his tutelage.

"I will."

The priest turned to her. "Wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health: and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him so long as ye both shall live?"

Seconds seemed like days, like months, like forever as Christine nodded softly at Erik as she spoke the simple words that would forever bind her to him.

"I will."

The priest duly continued with the ceremony, asking if any in the congregation should have objection to their holy union.

"Si l'un d'entre vous connaît une raison valable qui s'oppose à leur union légitime, qu'il parle maintenant, ou qu'il se taise à jamais." Erik muttered, under his breath to himself, proficiently explaining to Christine. She nodded. Surely there would be none to oppose them? After all, the congregation was made of Meg and Madame only.

A hand shot up. A single hand, and a familiar voice.

"That man, good father, is the Devil's Child! He had us all deceived right from the beginning. Say, good father, have you heard of the strange tale of the Phantom of the Opera? Why he stands before you, right now, ready to marry this charlatan woman who left me for him, right after I rescued her from him! Surely, this union cannot be of God!"

Raoul, having said his piece, gave a glare at the couple. Christine, about to cry. Erik, wanting to kill him. Nadir was stunned. Erik had made no mention o such a person harboring such ill intent toward him! Who was this strange creature that should speak so forwardly at the wedding? It was then he remembered a certain article in the papers speaking of a scorned lover of Christine's, and a unnatural disappearance, amongst other items he vaguely remmebered. So this was the Vicomte, Raoul de Changy. Nadir stood as Madame got up, and frigidly directed a string of French at him, and then spoke to the minister.

"It is my belief that this man himself lies. I brought up this man and this woman, they were both orphans somewhat. It is my belief, and this woman's dead father's belief, that they should be joined. Pardon me, Father, for having such and interruption. I shall handle this," she said, briskly walking out with Raoul. Nadir hastily followed at Erik's silent directive to do so, his soul feeling more down than ever at the sight he had just witnessed.

As puzzled as the priest was, he arranged his robes, coughing slightly at the strange things he had just heard. Phantom of what opera? As a cardinal and a priest, he knew not of such matters. Nevertheless, he continued, and thus so, the priest instructed Erik to take her hands in his, which he did, feeling the warmth of her hands against his cool, gloved one, knowing what came next. His vows. He had recited them in front of the mirror, day after day when she had said yes, but nothing could prepare him for this glorious moment. Stumbling slightly over his words, with the faint dusting of embarrassment and yet also love in his voice, her gazed into her brown eyes, repeating those holy words as he had read again and again in his library of books.

"I, Erik, take thee Christine, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance: And thereto I plight thee my faith."

Christine looked up at him, in slight bewilderment, not knowing what to do, this being her first time, and she was never told anything about weddings. Blinking slowly, as if waking from the dream, with slight, kindly, motherly prompting from Madame Giry, she repeated his vows word for word.

"I, Christine, take thee Erik, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance: And thereto I plight thee my faith."

No more interruptions ensued, Madame Giry really doing her job at taking care of the meddlesome boy, Erik noted, as he stared into Christine's eyes, which were now glazed over in sadness and worry and yet a twinge of heartbreaking happiness for their situation. An oxymoron, for she lost a childhood friend and gained another, not to mention she had finally her childhood fantasies and as well as her guardian with her.

At the minister's pause, Erik looked at him, and the man nodded, although he could not see. From the pocket in the lining of his waistcoat, Erik pulled out a simple gold band, a match to the first ring, save for the fact it was more grand in terms of color, and took her hand in his, slipping it over her finger to meet the other ring. He spoke the vow as the priest earlier instructed him.

"With this ring I thee wed, and with my worldly goods I thee endow, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."

Christine stared for a moment at the ring, and putting it up to the sunlight, she smiled at him, the events of earlier momentarily forgotten. The priest took both of their right hands and again joined them, laying his hand over theirs.

"Forasmuch as Erik and Christine have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have pledged their faith either to other, and have declared the same by joining of hands; I pronounce that they are husband and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder."

For a moment, they could only stare at one another, the realization still vague that their dreams shared, together and individually, had forever become the sweet verity of their future. Erik then took her face in his hands, gently cupping them as he slowly, slowly brought his lips to hers at the priest's instruction, a sweet, tender kiss like no other, one that burst into fireworks and wrought a trail of happiness down her body. Slowly, he pulled away, looking deep into her eyes.

"Mon amour, mon épouse…" he whispered.

As they looked at each other in reverence and love, a sudden brisk clearing of Madame Giry's throat brought them back to earth. Beside her was Raoul, mouth agape and a twisted face of shock and disappointment, not to mention sadness clouding his fine features. He barely muttered congratulation to Christine, stumbling out of the chapel drunkenly. Christine started after him, only to be pulled back by Erik.

"He cannot be salvaged. The damage is done of his own accord," he said, reassuringly stroking her hair. She nodded, gulping down the lump in her throat. The past would be the past, she thought, walking down the aisle with him. To their first night together.

When they get home, the butler opens the door politely, addressing Christine as a queen of sorts with his polite greeting. She looks at Erik, for this to her is unexpected and strange. With his eyes dancing in the gentle flame light that the mansion is bathed in, it is almost unreadable. Perhaps she will get used to this, she thinks. The words almost catch in her throat, for she knows not what to do on this glorious night. Madame and Meg direct her to her own room where she has slept in for the past few months, while Nadir follows his friend to make their own preparations. A slight blush covers her cheeks as the thought that this would be the last night she comes here enters her mind, before she is instructed to change. The dress is reminiscent of the one she wore in Don Juan Triumphant, the golden gossamer skirts floating about her thighs. The gentle green bodice and inner dress wraps around her, warping as it pleases, falling to gravity, as it likes. It feels free, set free by music. She feels free tonight. Since her childish manacles are shed, there can naught be anything but freedom now. A glimmer of a smile appears on her lips as Madame Giry compliments her on her radiant self that night, The words in her throat seem to run dry, as Meg smiles, giving her a hug.

"You're so lucky, Christine! I'm very sure Monsieur Phantom loves you a lot!"

The exuberant cries of her friend in congratulations makes Christine blush, as she is reminded of how she truly has succumbed to Erik, body and soul…She gives a smile, a brave smile that betrays nothing of her fears of the pain, nor or of her actual thoughts toward Erik… Hopefully.

* * *

Wahhhh I finally married them! I am sobbing so much happy tears now :') I feel like the wedding is way too fast though...OTLOTLOTL

How did you all like the whole thing? Sigh I wish I could tell you my life now it is so sad

what does authoresses do when they like a pretty guy who can sing.

a. disfigure them that they can be Erik.

b. refer to a.

c. refer to b.

d. all of the above.

e. all answers are correct


	14. Beyond the Point of No Return

So here begins the M rated smut of it. I had a depressing paper again and am still having to settle a pile of shit. Trying to get everything up ASAP because my mum will confiscate my computer by around end November. And I still have so much school and cosplay stuff to do OTL

Thank you for all the reviews that keep me alive. I love to read them, from grandma paula to TNP to Not A Ghost3 and Hugabouv. The answer is f, there is no answer because everything is up to your imagination. ;-) Keep dreaming, my phans! I admit, I have no idea where this is going still, and I think I'll wrap it up soon but I'm still so worried about all the loose ends-especially Raoul, because well, as much as I dislike him I still have to resolve him. And Meg and Nadir and Darius and Black the assassin. All will be answered in due time :-) I have all the answers in my head, just no way of writing it in. And I still feel this tale lacks the punch I always wanted it to have.

Thank you once more for being with me! I present to you chapter 14~

* * *

Chapter 14

Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye.  
H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

"Erik." Nadir's voice is quiet, hollowing slightly in the quiet of the halls. Erik looks up from his task of picking a few dozen of roses' petals, looking at his friend.

"Yes?"

"The boy…" Nadir bites his lip. "He is inconsolable."

Erik gives a low warning growl, eyes narrowing.

"Don't speak to me of that infernal fop. He isn't worth my worry. Not tonight, not forever."

Nadir nods.

"Erik, you and I have been friends for the longest of times. I refuse to let you be hurt by that boy. But pray tell, what were his sins that you are so angered by him?"

"Not only him, but his family."

"What could you perhaps mean? Erik, pray tell. You are so cryptic."

Erik shook his head stubbornly, continuing to pluck the petals. Nadir sank into the chair at the reception of the second floor landing of the west wing, not too far from where Erik and Christine would share a room. He flipped open a book beside him, attempting to read the words inside. It was a childish scrawl, no doubt, one that seemed to grow more formal and neat with time.

"If you would kindly stop leafing through Christine's diary in my presence, Daroga, perhaps I may consider divulging my secret."

"This is Christine's diary? How would you know?"

Erik looked up from his task momntarily, pointing at the name in small capital letters on the first page.

"And so, if you would please," he said, plucking the book our of Nadir's hands and descending the steps to make his own preparations.

Erik leaves a scattering of rose petals, his softened voice gently singing the very song he wrote for Christine, the very tunes that is his and only his…the passion of ruin, and yet the very song that brings them together…His mind remembers the night of Don Juan Triumphant, Christine… Her supple body is still in his arms as that very night, the way she leans into his touch…the memories are but silent, replaying in his mind. Fear, like a hunted child, coursing through him as he runs with Christine, the only person he wanted. Emptiness, as the Phantom spirit leaves him bit by bit. A dark reign over the Populaire as people ran to hunt him down. All the betrayals that happened that night. His fear besets him again as he softly caresses the rose petals he had strewn, and his heart beats almost faster as he hears Christine's footsteps making their way to the west wing. His bride awaits. Christine almost seems ethereal, and he watches her from around the corner as his voice, he throws his voice to lead her to him, to their room…

_You have come here in pursuit of your deepest urge _

_In pursuit of that wish which till now Has been silent… Silent._

_I have brought you _

_That our passions may fuse and merge, _

_In your mind you've already succumbed to me, _

_Dropped all defenses completely succumbed to me _

_Now you are here with me,_

_no second thoughts… _

_You've decided. Decided._

She whirls, and Madame Giry is but a few feet away from her, smiling. Fingers grip the crucifix tighter as Christine walks, letting the lyrics wash over her…

_Past the point of no return –_

_No backward glances:_

_Our games of make-believe are at an end _

The rose that lays on the small table in the hall of the west wing, a ballroom much like the one at the Populaire, smells exquisitely fresh, and the she tugs on the black ribbon, letting the voice that sings put her into a trance, as if to make her forget the others behind, the priests sending her off. Candles glimmer to life as she walks, leading a clear path in the dark for her.

_Past all thought of "if" or "when" _

_No use resisting:_

_Abandon thought, _

_And let the dream descend . . . _

_What raging fire shall flood the soul? _

_What rich desire unlocks its door? _

_What sweet seduction lies before us . . .? _

Her eyes close momentarily, the feeling of him flush against her body as he sung those lines leading her to let out a disappointed whimper when she finds he is gone, as quick as a ghost. The touch of his hands, bare and sliding down her arms as the time they had been on stage together leaves her with an empty feeling and a want for him.

_Past the point of no return, _

_The final threshold – _

_What warm, unspoken secrets _

_Will we learn? _

_Beyond the point of no return… _

The lamp on the staircase banister is her only hope now as it flares to life, calling her, beckoning her. Other than that, all the other tea light candles have all but flickered out, their lamps no longer shining. With determination, she ascends the spiral stairs, more candles blossoming to life again with the roses that have entwined the stairs, lending her and the surrounding with a reddish, pinkish glow. She notices further detail on this flight of steps, different from all the others in the house. They have the same pattern as the ring Erik fashioned for her, entwined roses. And the real roses curl around the detailed golden ones, making it seem royal and ethereal. Weaving the roses into her hair, five in a wreath, she ascends in song.

_You have brought me _

_To that moment where words run dry, _

_To that moment where speech disappears_

_Into silence, silence . . . _

So she remembers the way the words catch in her throat, the way she wants him wholly. Throwing caution and care to the winds and sea as she takes more steps upwards, she unhitches the skirts slowly, letting the sparkling gossamer fall as she sings.

_I have come here, _

_Truly knowing the reason why . . ._

_In my mind, I've already imagined _

_Our bodies entwining defenseless and silent –_

_And now I am here with you:_

_No second thoughts, _

_I've decided, _

_Decided… _

Erik fights the urge to scoop her up there and then, her flesh now bared to him so tantalizingly, as she takes every excruciating step up those stairs. The scent of the roses grows stronger, almost overwhelming, as she reaches the higher steps of the first half of the flight of steps. It is almost torturous for them both in want, as Erik watches silently from the top of the stairs, shrouded in darkness. Her voice, sweet and clear, sings to him.

_Past the point of no return –_

_No going back now:_

_Our passion-play has now, at last, begun . . . _

With a twirl that seems to give his mind more berth for imagination and leaving little to it, Christine leans against the banisters, her eyes riveted to the top. She knows he is there, and watching.

_Past all thought of right or wrong –_

_One final question: _

_How long will we two wait, before we're one . . .? _

Another change in his lyrics lets him draw in a sharp breath, finding the young maiden smiling beguilingly and coyly up at him, almost reaching the top.

_When will the blood begin to race?_

_The sleeping bud burst into bloom? _

_When will the flames, at last, consume us . . .? _

Her hands are now in his, the staircase lit in glowing hues of gold and red. He extinguishes them slowly, letting hanging lights take the job of illuminating the path to the room he has prepared for her. His voice as they sang was gruff with need, his hands slowly taking in her body.

_Past the point of no return, _

_The final threshold –_

_The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn . . ._

The final candles of the stairs die off with his voice as he sings, as they sing. The tension is too much to bear, and electricity seems to illuminate the air around them. Erik speaks the final line, soft and sweet as he places a kiss on Christine's lips, lingering there. She lets out a shaky breath as he pulls away, his hands travelling to the lace-up of her blue half-dress. Christine comes to the realization that he is wearing the ruffled lace shirt she loves, the one of Don Juan Triumphant. And the eyes that sparkle, the both of them, realize that they are wearing far too much, far too much. With a searing kiss again that says yes, he leads her into the room, onto the phoenix bed which he had fashioned again from nothing, an exact replica of gold and red, mirroring the legend of the phoenix rising. His lips are pressed to hers still as he rolls over, his heavier body against hers. With a breathy sigh, she whispers to him the final words that threaten to crumble his resolve.

"Take me, I'm yours."

To savor each sensation was the thing he had extolled to her in the Music of the Night, and yet he found himself wanting to throw himself headlong into the beauty and scent that was Christine, pressed against him lovingly. The way she had given herself to him, and he was like a child wanting to unwrap his present, eagerly raining kisses over her face and her neck. How had he even come up with such lyrics? One denied all the joys of the flesh and he had known, through extensive reading as a child. Madame had not been strict in her research before she purchased books for him, and he had drawn on that knowledge to pen that very song of desire for Christine. But to experience it in the flesh was a brand new thing to him, and he gave a small apology of his haste and lack of experience, burying his face in the soft curls of Christine's hair, nipping her earlobe. Judging by the pleasured mewl she made, he guessed he wasn't far from being a good boy who applied his theory to practical. Running a single digit from her moistened lips, he traced an invisible path from her lips to the gentle peaks of her cleavage, showing over the bodice of her dress. Her hands reached up to him, slowly bringing him closer for another kiss, shuddering at the rush of emotion that she felt every time their lips had touched that very night.

But the mask, the bloody mask was still in the way!

Christine kissed Erik again, removing the mask as she had on the night of Don Juan Triumphant. Feeling him stiffen under her hand, she molded him to her with kisses, little peppery kisses and her hands, which roamed to his chest, feeling the fine dusting of hairs he had there. Her body arched up willingly, the supple, slim hips of hers flush against his great need. She blushed but did not pull back, instead she slowly gyrated her hips tantalizingly against his. He let out a groan, suckling the alabaster skin beneath his lips, trailing all the way down from her lips to her cleavage, the lace of her dress or what was left of it tickling the bare face. How, how could she make love or want to when she saw that haunted face? No, no she couldn't! he seemed to tell himself. And yet from the way she arched against him…

"Christine…you have no idea…of how much I love you," he rasped, his hands sliding down her legs. She let out a gasp at the soft touches of his knuckles against her bare skin, and slowly, her legs spreading of their own accord with his feather light touches.

"Erik…"

He felt her, under his touch, with the flame that consumed the both of them. Rising like the hungry beast to survey his prey, he gently tugged at the lace of the dress, at the laces up the front, that slowly she lay, almost bare before his eyes, like the dormant bud awakened into bloom. He shed his own boots, and she rose, the dress now pooling around her waist, leaving the top of her body bare to his feasting of the eyes, her hands hesitantly pulling his ruffled shirt out of the waistband of his pants, which clung to him. They fit him like a glove, and she could see the strong muscles that lay underneath those pants, the sinew of well developed muscle. Her hands found the back of him, and she almost wept as she felt the harsh crisscross of scars against what would otherwise be a smooth, perfect back. "Shh," he whispered, joining his lips to hers. "It doesn't hurt anymore." Her hands traveled downwards, and joined his, as they removed the last scrap of clothing on him. He stretched out beside her, his body a heated mass that brought back the blush to her cheeks. With reverence, he pulled the last bits of clothing too, off Christine. As the air rushed over her naked body, she shuddered, letting out a soft moan. She closed her eyes, mewling softly.

"Open your eyes," Erik commanded, in a stern yet tender tone. She complied, blushing even more furiously as his head dipped, sucking on the pale, dusky peaks of arousal. His tongue laved over her rose colored areolas, leaving her to squirm underneath him with pleasure. She writhed, his wicked tongue almost driving her over the edge. Never in her virginal dreams had she imagined him touching her so intimately. Fire burned in her belly, a coil beginning to tighten and form. She bucked her hips up with want, earning a throaty growl of pleasure from him. Slowly, he descended down her body, his tongue licking almost every point on her skin. The fire in his eyes, the passion of his love, the heat of it all threatened to consume her. And God, how she wanted it! Letting out a wanton cry as his tongue gave pleasure to her lower regions, his tongue sliding over her navel, she raked her hands into his silken hair, as he dipped lower and lower, threatening to…

God.

She felt she could explode with the colors of the rainbow that seemed to dance before her eyes, as his tongue explored the forbidden caverns of her silken flesh, the first to enter her virginal body. Not even she had known of the insides of it, and she could feel the muscle, inside, coating her with his fluids as she coated his tongue with the ambrosia that was his. She wanted…she needed…something. But what did she want? What did she need? She screamed softly, as he delved deeper past her lower lips, the tiny tuft of auburn hair in his nose, tickling his senses with the scent that was distinctly hers. It was then only, as he rose again to capture her lips, had she finally noticed the enormity of Erik. The size of him was impressive, and she let out a small whimper. How was she going to fit the whole of him inside her, her tiny body? He would break her before she knew it! Christine gasped as she felt Erik on her, flushed against her, covering her nakedness with his. She blushed deeply, at a loss for what to do. They stared into each others' eyes, his eyes growing stormy with the want for her. She quivered like an arrow strung tightly on a bow, slowly relishing this closeness but fearing the path ahead.

"I-I cannot make this, what I am about to do any less painful," he said, his head bowed to hers reverently, partially in shame, as his legs wrapped around hers. She nodded, understanding. Slowly, gently, he slid his hands down her legs, his fingers, dividing her lower lips, sliding into her silken core. She let out a moan at the fire that seemed to consume her, the fire of being stretched beyond what she had ever known. She tensed and then relaxed, finding the sensation of being filled with but his mere fingers a new sensation altogether. Nodding her compliance to him, he began to move inside her, two digits scissoring the walls of her womanhood, the scent of her intensifying and making him want to ravish her already. Slowly, she began to move to his rhythm, finding the fullness of his utterly delicious, the friction they created heavenly. She let out a sigh of happiness as his lips latched around her other breast, pleasuring it as he had done earlier. As the rhythm and speed picked up, she let out a guttural moan as she clenched against his fingers, releasing evidence of her pleasure over his fingers. He withdrew his fingers, finding himself hard and completely erect at the act they had just performed. Giving his fingers an experimental lick as he wrapped them around his member, he proceeded to coat it lasciviously in the juices, which she had provided, positioning himself at her entrance. She blushed, pulling him close as he broke her and her maidenhood in a swift stroke. The sting of it rushed through her body and she writhed underneath him with the pain of it all.

"Christine…" he moaned, her walls deliciously tight against his aching member. How he longed to pummel into her the evidence of his want, and yet he couldn't, not with her in her pitiable state underneath him. He turned her face towards his, the beads of sweat dripping down their faces. She had said nothing all this while, and he cradled her in his palms, gently looking at her. Tears brimmed in their eyes as the consummation of their marriage took place. The tremulous weight upon his shoulders felt lifted with the union of their bodies. Christine, beautiful Christine, was now his wife.

His wife.

The words hung in the air with a sense of solemnity, and he kissed her gently, before beginning to move.

She whimpered, holding onto him.

"Don't leave me…"

He gave a deep, amused rumble with served for a laugh.

"Trust me, mon ange, mon amour…"

She did.

As he slowly began to move in and out of her, her eyelids fluttered shut as she relished in the new experience that Erik gave her, of two joining as one. The delightful friction they created as they moved in harmony to each other, like perfect cadences as they descended into their own animalistic heat. Christine rose to meet his every thrust, bare skins slapping against each other as they lapped up the pleasurable sensation and they heat of their lovemaking. Erik's hands traversed the planes of her body as her thrust in and out, her body jerking to his rhythm. He picked up in the pace, and she felt the heat of their lovemaking ready to consume her like the animal she was. Almost, she felt sinful and as well as godly for doing such an act, as her hands laced themselves tightly around his back. Her short nails raked his strong back, leaving faint crisscrosses over the deeper ones of the scars. He moaned, joining their lips together again as he jerked, more and more erratically against her soft flesh. As he cried out her name softly and loudly, all at once in their lovemaking, Christine's eyes rolled into the back of her head, her toes curling at the pleasure he gave her…Erik, she desperately called out to him, as she clung to him. Erik, mon amour…

Damning his body that demanded release as he lost himself in the deep pleasure that was Christine, Erik shifted their legs and their bodies, such that she now sat upon him, almost as if riding him. Now with her on top, she bucked upwards, gravity working in her favor and filling her with the rigid, tightening member. The coil in her stomach grew tighter, threatening to explode with the intensity of their lovemaking as Erik thrust up into her, pummeling, driving into her. His hands cupped her tantalizing globes again, moulding them as she cried out for him. He switched positions again, and she lay before him, her hair fanned out on the pillow wildly. His hands cupped her breasts and kneaded them furiously as he left little love bites all over her neck, and his body begged for release. He was so close…as she let out a scream of his name, tightening around him, he too came, jerking in a spasm into her body, as they fell off the edge together, white light clouding their vision as they climaxed with him spilling his seed into her. Gentle warmth spread over them as he fell onto her, their sweaty hair slicked over their faces. Already, the coil in her stomach had begun to unwind, and she smiled at him, placing a gentle kiss on his lips. He reciprocated in return to her love, caressing her cheek. Her heart still raced with the intensity of the act, and she held him close, but with the reassurance that no matter where each of them would go, they would not be separated again. Bound by the law of God and the consummation of the holy act of marriage, Christine smiled, a lazy smile as she reached out and pulled him close. The sweat on their bodies mingled and trickled down, as the seed down her thighs, a gentle trickle which made her blush. He pulled the coverlet from underneath them, laying it over their entwined bodies. She looked at him, and together, in hushed voices, they sang the final line of his song, no, their song.

"We've passed the point of no…return…"

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Danke :-)

Please leave a review even if you're just passing by.

It brightens up my day


	15. Free Me, Save Me

WOOOHOOO MY EXAMS ARE OVER. Sorry I didn't post anytime soon or whatsoever, I was busy writing and buying cosplay items etc etc.

(Hint hint you can see your beautiful authoress at instagram dot com / kuroneko _ rainbows )

:3

By the way, does anyone else have phantomlnd . net account? :)

Here is chapter 15, my lovelies~~

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Chapter 15

When the dark unfurls its wings, do you sense the strangest things?

-Phantom, Love Never Dies

Christine awoke in the middle of the night to the numbing ache between her legs, and she smiled to herself, finding her face buried in his nude chest. She breathed in the scent of him, looking up at him as he slowly woke and snuggled closer, to which he gave a low murmur of delight. Wrapping his arms around her to hold her just the littlest bit closer, nibbling at her earlobe. She blushed, squirming. Erik captured her lips again, sucking on the lower lip, licking it. He then looked into her eyes, giving a soft, breathy groan as he felt himself wanting her again.

"Mon ange, " he breathed, looking with an apologetic look at her. "I fear that I want and need you again…"

She gave a whimpering cry of compliance, allowing him to pin her underneath his strong, sinuous body once more. Their breaths mingled, warm in the dark of the night. He slid his hand up the side of her body, gently applying pressure to her breast, as she let out a moan. She was so sensitive…her body was like a mass of hotspots and erogenous zones, and Erik's magical touch left her burning with want. And he wanted to drink her in, drink her up.

His tongue flicked out, laving over the planes of her collarbones, gently kissing each inch of her skin reverently.

"Erik…" she said, her voice coming out on a soft, longing breath. He pulled her hands above her head, hands forming manacles on her hands, as he bound them with the clothes they left around. She gave a cry of frustration, wanting to touch him as well. Letting out a cry as he ran his palms up and down her arms, stimulating her. His hands roamed freely over her body, parting her lower lips to rub on the little nub in between her legs, the pearl of her womanhood. She let out a frustrated cry, kicking. This was torture and heaven all at once, Erik felt the evidence of her pleasure, as it leaked out onto his fingers, coating them. Erik gently prodded the her entrance, teasing her. She gritted her teeth, biting down on her tongue. He craved her deeply again, the enticing scent of her slowly washing over him in waves. As he teased her, slowly in languid strokes, palming the soft mass of curls above her womanhood. She gave a breathy, shaky moan, squirming in his palm. Looking down at his fingers with her eyes clouded in fascination and lust, her breaths came hot and harsh on his neck, as he turned her over to face him, looking at her to claim her lips once more. His fingers were coated, slick with the evidence of pleasure, as he traced a gentle trail from her neck, over her stomach and her body with those exact fingers. She blushed, watching his as those fingers trailed over his body too, and he gave them an experimental suck, making her all the more aroused. It was then he looked at her again, and they moved in unison as he guided his aching manhood to her entrance to claim her again., freeing her hands as he did so.

"Mine…" he rasped, as Christine found herself filled again, filled by him. She was pressed beneath him, into the covers of the bed and its finery, with her hands over the strong planes of his back. Growing bolder and shedding the inhibitions as she had from earlier, she kneaded his back, the sensitive scarred skin of his tingling with electric want as he felt her soft fingers over him, a dance unmapped and yet so…pleasurable. He was at a loss for words, inhaling a ragged breath as he began to slowly move, staring into dark pools of night obsidian as he made love to her slowly. Gently, he rocked against her, languidy, taking his time to draw her out. He groaned deeply, squeezing his eyes shut now to revel in the beauty of it.

Music had been the savior of his soul…a balm to the wounded man.

And making love to Christine was the very gate to heaven's door.

His tortured dark soul had been released in the passion that was his Angel, underneath him. Christine wrapped her legs around him again, as if the solution to his wretched self. Plunging deeper into her core with each thrust, he shed tears of silence, his face writhing with the fear that it was a dream. And feeling the very warmth around him, tangled in the red velvet sheets…Christine wrapped her arms around him, meeting his passionate thrusts with every rise of her own hips. Erik licked her lips once more, passionately suckling at her smooth skin as he rocked into her deeply.

She would be spent too fast, too fast for her taste, as his intensified heat sent her convulsing, coating her husband with more of her pleasures.

And yet, she was still aroused much fast as Erik, whispering endearments through his lovemaking and the way his tongue traced over her body, taking her with renewed passion…Christine was almost breathless with his want, and still he continued to take her…soaring until they fell over the edge…

It couldn't be morning already.

Dratted sun.

Christine found that Erik had not left her through the night, his limp shaft still in her core. She wanted to go back to sleep, to remain dreaming in Erik's arms, but she found that the bright sunlight prevented her from doing so. And Erik's arms were still around her… Locked in such a tight embrace, how could she deny him the pleasures of waking up to her? It was then she realized that he too had woken.

"Good morning," he said, leaning over to kiss her on her cheek. She blushed, for now that he had moved, she was acutely aware of her state of undress. She pulled the coverlet up to her chest, only stopping when Erik pulled it back down and off her. She turned an even deeper shade of red, stumbling over her words of protest. He raked his gaze up and down her, slowly moving away to survey her. A lazy smirk crossed his lips as he gazed at her again wolfishly, heightening her arousal once more. His gaze never left her, and Christine was worried.

"Did I—I mean, is there something the matter or something wrong?"

Before she could gather her thoughts to Erik's gently motioning no, she found her lips silenced by a bruising kiss.

"Don't ever say that. You are perfect. And you are mine," he softly whispered, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

She choked back a sob, the emotional rollercoaster that kept climbing after her marriage to Erik finally reaching burtsing point. She wrapped her arms around him, holding her close. A flash of worry crossed his face.

"I seem to be making you cry a lot," he stated flatly.

She shook her head, her mass of curls wildly flinging out around her. Erik could have lived a thousand lives just to see that again, her seated in front of him, like a warrior princess thoroughly ravished as she gazed at him happily with those spirited eyes, before saying the very words that made him feel as if he had lost his heart entirely to her.

"These, Erik," she said, gently leading his palm to cup her tears as they fell, "are tears of joy."

"Oh, Christine…" he whispered hoarsely, closing the distance between them again. "You, ma bel ange, have made me truly, truly the happiest man on Earth."

"Thank God for that," she said merrily.

They could have spent the day lazing in bed, making love and talking to each other, but each became acutely aware of their other needs such as sustenance. And Christine dearly needed the privy. So they rose, and Christine fell back on the bed with a squeak. She had a certain ache in between her thighs, making it almost hard to move. The evidence of last night's passion coursed down her thighs, heating them. Erik quickly rushed over to her side, carrying her. She gave a squeak of surprise, finding herself buried against a robe of deep maroon and gold trim, a robe that was distinctly Erik's, and as she was naked. She managed to stutter out that she needed the priviy and some…clothing or cover, and Erik nodded, turning away that she may not see his own blush that had covered his cheeks. He turned abruptly on his heel with his feelings masked once more.

"ANTOINETTE!" Erik bellowed as he stormed into Madame Giry's chambers that she was in. She frowned, although used to her Maestro's temper; she still did dislike his loud tempers. She spun around, turning to look at him with stone cold eyes that mellowed him considerably. Already thirty, and he still acted like a child.

"What is it, Erik?" she asked, in her French accented voice, looking up and down the figure in front of her. He was a sight to behold, still regal even in his state of undress, without a wig nor his customary mask. Erik caught her curious gaze, and his hand slapped to his face instinctively.

Damn it!

He was without a mask? In his haste, he had sought out Madame Giry with no care at all for his state of dress, or undress for that matter. Groaning inwardly, he turned slightly from her, hand still kept to his face. In a clipped, hesitant voice, he continued.

"It's Christine," he explained, "She…" He skittered around his words, not knowing what to say, What was he to say? That their violent lovemaking had left her incapable of movement and the like? "She's…well…in the privy. I'm not sure how or what to do," he concluded, a slight blush already covering his cheeks.

Madame Giry laughed, a chuckle that was warm as she was a motherly figure to him.

"I see, I see!" she said, hurrying off with her usual gait.

Madame Giry knocked on the door before entering. Christine blushed, covering her body, which was still nude. Madame Giry smiled warmly at the girl.

"It's no matter, my dear. We are both women after all. Ah, I still remember the day after the wedding night. Henri seemed to know much more, so much more than Erik does." She gave a short bark of laughter, as if mocking Erik playfully, who gave a somewhat unhappy cough from outside the door.

"Come in, Erik," Christine called. He bit his lower lip, slowly walking in. He felt like a schoolboy, waiting to be punished. Christine was clothed in a wrapper matching his, something he had passed to Madame Giry to give to her much earlier. He took her hand as she stood unsteadily, her legs peeking out from the wrapper. Looking away, he slowly led her down the stairs. Christine moreover, unhappily noticed that he had resumed the mask. She held him close as she was helped down the stairs to luncheon. Meg looked Christine up and down curiously, as she saw Christine in the beautiful wrapper, with barely anything else on. Christine turned away shyly to Erik, not wanting to meet her friend's curious gaze.

"You don't seem much different," she noted gaily. "Except you seem to have this glow to you. Tell me, Christine, how is it to be married? I'm so happy for you! And you too, Monsieur Phantom!" she said, bobbing him a small curtsy.

He nodded tersely, taking her hand and placing a small kiss on it, all the time still supporting Christine.

"Thank you…Marguerite Marie-Eloise Giry, for being Christine's friend in all these years and more." Bestowing her a rare smile, although somewhat forced, it still had an affect to the young girl, who blushed profusely at the newfound surprise she had just received, from the Opera Ghost himself, nonetheless! She blinked, looking at her hand again as she sat down for luncheon. Across the table, with her hand in her husband's, Christine smiled at Meg, a gentle flush across her cheeks as she let Erik pull out her chair for her. Overall, at luncheon nor dinner did he display much emotion to his wife, nor did she really display much show of love except the common holding of hands sometimes and to put the prime cuts of food on each others' plates. The passion they shared, they decided, could be left to the moments out of others' sight as they always had done.

Reclining on the chaise in Erik's den, she watched as Erik stroked her hair, and brought a tome of stories to read. She frowned at the text, it all being in English. She could recognize some words, but barely at all. Flipping the pages, she saw familiar pictures, an ogre, a peacock, women… Suddenly, a familiar form caught her eye. A phoenix. She gaped at the page for longer than usual, her hands running over the print. Erik noted her strange action, and looked over her shoulder to read the page.

"The houou, or Japanese phoenix," he said, with a slight smirk. Christine looked at him, her gentle eyes roving over the pages again. "A mythical Chinese bird, thought to have been introduced to Japan in the Asuka period. The phoenix has a bird's beak, a swallow's jaw, and a snake's neck; the front half of its body is thought to resemble a giraffe, the back half a deer. Its back resembles a tortoise, and its tail is like a fish. It is often shown in an aogiri, with bamboo in the background, or surrounded by karakusa. It symbolizes both conflict…" he noted, a slight frown to his face as he remembers his rough treatment of Christine when she had first unmasked him, "and wedded bliss." He turns slightly away from her, fingers clenching around the armrest almost that he would break it. "My Christine…"

She slipped her arms around him gently, encircling his neck as she buried her head in his neck, taking in his scent. "Tell me more, Erik, more," she goaded him on, giggling softly. "It reminds me of the legends Papa used to tell me." At this, he turns, cradling her face in his hands softly, his eyes slowly turning a stormy green as his grip tightens.

"**And yet they cannot ever be**!" he hisses.

"Why not, Erik?"

"Because the legends are your past. They are your past with that…"

Christine blinks, slowly realizing.

"He cannot, and will not be my future." Slowly, she cradles his face with a gesture of her own, letting the ring on her left hand slide past his cheek, the cool metal slipping underneath the mask as she pulls it off. Stunned, he gasps, almost as if drowning.

"Erik…" she murmurs, letting her hands rush over damaged skin. His grip looses and falls to his side, as he bites his lip, staring straight into brown eyes that he loves. Wordlessly, he crumples to her, bringing his head to her bosom, the longing need in him again to hold her close, forever.

His hands cup his head, a throbbing singing in his head again. He cringes, hearing the footsteps entering the room. Black walks in, the apathetic look plastered on his face, fingering his gun in his holster. No words are exchanged as Raoul is kicked against the wall, and Black hauls him up, his shirt tearing against the wall. A glob of spit lands squarely in between Raoul's eyes, and he pushes the man off him roughly. Black tumbles to the floor, getting up with his limbs flailing, a maladroit marionette of sorts, landing a hit on Raoul's head. Raoul cringes, that was the last thing he needed while nursing his aching head.

"You are weak, Vicomte. Weak for the girl." He mutters, sliding his hand up and down the gun.

"Shut up," Raoul hisses, gritting his teeth, curling into a ball.

"And why should I? You and I both know I speak the truth. With a few sappy words from her, you run. You run like a bloody puppy with your tail within your damn legs!"

"And maybe I care more about her than your revenge!"

"Perhaps, but your mother, your bloody mother that sent mine to her grave, STILL LIVES!"

Raoul's blue eyes widen in shock.

"What…did you say?"

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Wahahahah so much fluff and angst again. Gonna phanmarathon for the sake of the phantomlnd dot net people. And then I still have Chinese A level exams and Project Work for A levels. /sobs grossly

I hate the school wifi :(


	16. Darkness Which You Know You Cannot Fight

Your authoress is half dead. And still posting to prove that she is alive. Project work as a subject is swamping me-I am to make edits PLUS design for my project OTL It kills me. As such, I don't use my brain much to type anymore-I have taken to playing League of Legends the whole day haha! If anyone is on the Asia server add me through Gayrena okay? :-)

Short chapter is short as short beyond short is short. :-P

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Chapter 17

He who strikes first wins.

-L, Death Note

The delusion is crashing over him in waves, rolling in his blackened soul. Maybe he is but the moniker he has created for himself, a dark shadow. Perhaps he is no better than the man that killed his mother. He might as well have killed the woman himself, he tells himself, as the Vicomte is soon pressed to gunpoint. His hair still is oily and slick, and even with his background he is but reduced to a poor scum. Once, his mother had been the most sought after nurse in the whole of Victorian Europe. And then she had met that devil, that black devil! And he had killed her when he returned, not a single word of thanks for bringing him up all those years. Admittedly, his mother had barely been kind in the upbringing of him, but who could fault her? After she had nursed him, being hired by those infernal de Changys, nobody had wanted her. They were sure she had been cursed with the Devil, to care for the Devil was to be its servant. The money she had made as a governess soon dwindled, and she sold him off, hoping he would die at the hands of those gypsies. As a boy, he had hoped so too, even if he was slightly intrigued by the way that the strange creature made music out of all the pots and pans in his mother's house. As a boy, he had watched in fascination and disgust, however, a strange friendship had formed, one that burned into hatred when he saw that strange creature return and kill his mother in a heated rage, most likely under the effects of morphine. And now he too was induced by the drug to murder, to kill, the exact same way that this fop's infernal brother had done to his mother! His beloved mother! But reason sang in his head. If he killed the boy, where would his money come from? And if he killed him, would he not be as base as the creature himself?

Bloody hell.

In the darkness of the morphine, he could barely see the Vicomte in front of him, still trembling at gunpoint. Instead, he pulled out a hypodermic needle, and plunged it straight into the hand of the Vicomte, which he grabbed and held close. The blonde thrashed wildly before his eyes, screaming as the drug took over him. The painkiller was beautiful; his virginal experience with the drug was a kaleidescopic high too. Shapes swam in Raoul's eyes, all the colors of the rainbow, as he curled up into a ball and whimpered. It was so amazing; he could almost see Christine again. The jewels that sparkled in her hair, the coolness of her soft hands against his face. The way she smiled at him. Her mouth curving at the edges, its soft rosy pink hues…Raoul found himself kneeling at the assassin's legs with delirious want as the delusion faded from his view, screaming for more of the drug. Black gave a leer, as he slowly injected more of the venom into the boy's veins…

As Christine sits in the parlor with the Girys, Erik finds himself utterly bored. He feels almost as if his mind is languishing in realxation, something he has never felt before his marriage to Christine. The dark side of him, a curled up panther on the prowl, ready to pounce, will consume him whole. To wait for the womenfolk to have their tea and chitchat is not something he would do. And yet to experience a rush of working again, under the effects of drugs and coffee and tea is not what Christine would want either. He remembers working tirelessly in Persia to design the very torture chambers of lore, under the effects of morphine, coffee and other lethal combinations. It was only after five days of consecutive working had he collapsed at his desk to sleep it off, and Nadir had entered his room on an order, and had ordered his men to take him to the offices that the Daroga of Mazanderan had. There, Erik had been left in a cold cell to sleep off the effects of the drug. And when he had awoken, he had flown into a dark, terrible rage. Bars, cages, nothing could hold his demons in. The Phantom himself remembers the way he saw in the dark, prowling around his cage as Nadir sent his best men to subdue him. And all had left the cage half dead and quivering in fear. Erik bit his lip, vowing to never detiorate to such a level again. It was then, at the end of almost another week, where Erik had all but not touched the drug for a few days, had Nadir crudely set up a table and chair in the cell, and placed all of Erik's work in front of him. Frantically, he had scrabbled and produced designs of palaces grander than the common man's imagination, to please himself and the accursed Shah. The man himself must have been a creature of chthonic descent, as a result of Nadir's actions he sentenced Erik to even greater amounts of work. In an attempt to break free from these demons, he had flown into a blind rage, killing every guard that had been sent to him. And this bloodlust, this dark thirst had instead sated the Shah. Erik stared at the needle in his hand, rolling the fine tip he had fashioned in the tip of his fingers. He remembered the last time he had succumbed to this addiction after leaving Persia, he had killed much more, so much more in Paris. All those innocents.

"Erik."

The quiet, insistent voice of his Persian friend came from the door, as Erik let out a low growl and whipped around to face the Persian.

"Nadir Khan. I never gave you express permission to enter here, did I?"

"But look at you, Erik. You scorn the boy, which I know is drunk half of the time, and yet you insist on drugging yourself with such substance. What makes you any better than him? Not to mention—" Nadir said, choking as he felt Erik's strong grip on his neck. "You cannot hope that she will stay, if you don't relinquish your dark side completely. Such a whirlwind marriage. You cannot hope to think that such a damnable idea would work, would you?"

"Shut the hell up."

"You well know I speak reason, Dark Angel of Mazanderan."

"YOU LIE."

Erik shook the Daroga with such fierceness he was sure that he could snap the elderly man like a twig. With a roar, he set him roughly down, his head ringing with the soft voices that coaxed him, even with the security he drew from Christine's marriage with him. Even with such reassurance, he would doubt. Inside his head had always been the doubts that she would leave, even after she had promised to stay with him for all eternity. The memories of their wedding came flooding back in, and he remembered Christine's face as she saw Raoul leaving. Decidedly, he donned his fedora and cape, deciding that the twilight would be enough to shield him from prying eyes.

Raoul breathes heavily, his eyelids twitching as he gives an involuntary spasm. Beside him, the assassin purrs softly, raking filthy hands through his hair. He knows now the extent of control this drug and this man has over him. Raoul bites his tongue, choking back a groan that he may not seem pathetic.

"Do you now see, that you never had the upper hand, Monsieur le Vicomte?" A yank on the boy's hair. "Do you?" Nails raked down the boy's face, gently that they left no scars. Then rougher, that red lines were drawn across his nose and eyelids, red lines that soon faded. Lost in the haze of the drug wearing off, Raoul still made no effort to fight back. He choked on a glob of his saliva, coughing.

"Imbecile." He managed, after coughing a few more times. Black kicks him violently, glaring at him. In the course of torturing Raoul, he had consumed more syringes of morphine than he thought humanly possible. Maybe, he mused, this is how Erik felt when he killed my mother, he muses, a lopsided leer on his lips. The window flies open as Black looms over Raoul, half strangling him. Cold metal is pressed to Black's temple, and he flinches momentarily.

"Drop the boy."

A coaxing, hypnotically melodious voice is heard behind Black, and Raoul barely makes out a figure behind the assassin as he is dropped uncermoniously to the floor, his head hitting the floor with force that he is almost sure it leaves an indelible bump.

Erik is pretty sure what he feels now is inhuman. As he loops the lasso effortlessly around the man's neck, keeping the gun pressed to him, all he can think of is Christine. Rescuing her Vicomte, her foppish friend. Is this not the best for her? He feels the adrenaline pumping in his veins, and tells himself this is but something he should have done ages ago. The lasso tightens around Black's neck, and the man coughs, blood spattering over the floor. He struggles, the rope tightens itself. Raoul, splayed on the floor, looks up in fear.

There is no turning back. He will not care. Erik grins darkly, giving the final tug that will kill him. And Black chooses that moment to fight, sending the gun spinning out of Erik's hand, whipping off his mask. Enraged, Erik instantly pulls, the sheer force of the rope killing the man.

Not before Black manages to taunt him, taunt him for his deformity.

All he can see is anger, red anger.

Taking the gun, he shoots blindly, shooting until the body before him spasms even in death. Blood. Blood of a sinner will justify the means…Erik then proceeds to spin onto the Vicomte, the gun in…Nadir's face?

* * *

A cliffie? What? Me?

/runs to a Becca concert and sings I'm ALIVE with the crowd so everyone can't find me...

You didn't think I was gonna let Erik be all goody goody smooshy lovey dovey forever did you...Oh wait, you did? ;0

I'm sorry for my writing being so bad, I haven't been myself since the exams ended/started/two weeks before the exams. First, I started spazzing and spacing out, and my whole body ached. Then I kept calling myself the Devil's Child and began to act like Erik when he's pissed-see where my inspiration comes from? Then I started mindlessly playing guitar, piano, ukelele, clarinet...and listening to Mozart's Requiem on eternal replay, slowly composing my own Kyrie mass...turning into Leroux's Erik, and probably scaring my mum and parents into thinking that I was possessed "OTL I'm alive though lol.

0;-) Until next time~


	17. Merry-Go-Round of an Inhuman Race

Wahahha I think this is more satisfactory to me in terms of my writing style l0l. :3 Finally am getting back my mojo from depression's hell.

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Chapter Seventeen

If being powerless is evil, is having power justice ? Is revenge Evil ? Can friendship coexist with justice?

-Lelouch Lamperouge, Code Geass

"Erik." Nadir breathes, heaving slightly. Erik flinches, the edges of his mask barely moving. He lets out a feral growl, the adrenaline of the kill in his veins. He has killed before, but never with such rage. The bloody families were all and one the same! Need he care for such scum? His eyes glitter almost gold, dangerously, as he picks up the discarded fedora and paces the room, a rakish figure in the falling darkness. Raoul struggles to his feet, and Erik pushes him to the bed roughly.

"This," he hisses, "is for Christine. She would not want you dead, and likewise, I believe it to be best that you stay that way for the sake of my beloved. As you have seen, I can very well kill you off," he growled out, emphasizing particularly on his ability to kill him off. Erik then pulls out a vial of liquid from his coat, handing it to him.

"This is a substance to help you kick the addiction you've just begun." Taking out a small rag as the Vicomte looks over the bottle, he begins to clean up the blood, staunching the flows from the body. When the floor is remarkably spotless, he picks up the man, slinging him over his shoulder before he disappears, out of the window All this while, Nadir has stood in the corner, in a position ready to prevent Erik from making any more kills. As the imposing shadow of black leaves, the small man makes a polite bow, greeting the Vicomte with the blessing of Allah before he leaves through the door, much more properly than his other friend, Raoul thought.

Erik's pace is almost jaunty as he disposes of the body, sticking to the shadows. Nadir keeps near them, as if looking for his errant friend. Out of a small alley, Erik grabs the slight frame by the back, startling him.

"Damn you, Erik! Whatever could you be thinking? This is not Paris nor is it Persia! What could have possessed you to do such a thing? I thought you were but going to make your peace with the Vicomte!"

"I did, did I not?" Erik snarls, baring his teeth much like an animal, glaring at the shorter man as they continue their journey in the shadows. Erik fingers the lasso on his waist, swinging perkily with his haughty pace. Nadir almost rushes to keep up with the taller man, clicking his tongue.

"Not like that, Erik. You've all but convinced him of the cold-blooded murderer that he sees you as. No doubt you have saved his life, but is that what Christine would want?"

"Who gave you the bloody right to speak of my wife, **MY WIFE, **in such a personal manner, Daroga?" Erik slows, his pace growing uneven, as he walks on. Nadir shudders to himself at Erik's dark aura, trying to calm him. The phantasmal being all but restrains himself from the dark rages that make him want to kill Nadir, instead heading to a nearby bar, stripping himself of soiled gloves and disposing of them carefully in the alley behind, before setting them on fire as he draws out a second pair. He sits, motioning for Nadir to do so as well, as he calls a waiter over. The boy is but a gangly teenager, whose nerves show of his age and inexperience as he watches his dark, brooding customer with shifty eyes. Quickly, he scribbles Erik's order in a hurried, cacographic font before stumbling off. Erik's green eyes seem to glimmer almost catlike as he faces Nadir.

"Allah have mercy, Erik! Two drinks are way too much even for a man like you."

"The other was meant for you," he spits out, tersely. "To hell with you religion tonight. You need something to calm yourself too." He notes, with the acuity of a man younger than his actual age, and a dark, hypnotic aura to him all. "After all you saw. Like that boy. Maybe he can relieve you of your religious dilemma." He points to the door, where a man stumbles in, almost choking on the thick smoke of it all. Over him, a huge, hulking brute of a man stood, almost blocking his path entirely. Raoul all but managed a small excuse me, half pushing past him. He had not taken but a few steps, when the man stopped him with his arms, beckoning to his other friends.

"Yea, think you're so smart, eh? You milksop pansy, yer don't know what's good for ya!" The man seemed to pick Raoul up, and he could smell the heady scent of alcohol on his breath. He knew, almost instinctively, as he had been dead drunk himself to such extents also. And for the second time that day, Raoul found spit in between his eyes and a man mocking him.

Erik seemed to move with deadly accuracy and with the striking grace of a panther as he stood from the table, springing into action. He slipped out a small dagger from under his vest, slinking over to the brute looming over Raoul.

"Make your move, Monsieur. I cannot guarantee your life after." The blade dug into the man's thick skin, drawing a few droplets of blood. The man hissed in pain, rivulets of sweat dripping down his neck. Suddenly, Erik whipped around, his blade making contact with a man's stomach, the sickening squelch of the flesh against the blade making half the men in their clutch their roiling stomachs to prevent themselves from retching. Erik turned his attention back to the man he had originally targeted, only to find that he had taken to his heels and exited the bar. Erik tossed a bag of coins at the barkeep, nodding as he threw the dead man out of the bar at the back. The man flinched visibly, quaking in his boots as he accepted the bag of coins. Erik wove through the crowd effortlessly, the men parting like the red sea before the masked man and his commanding presence. Raoul sat before him, watching the other and his glittering, dancing eyes.

"I had a sensing you would follow after me." Erik gave a nod, pushing the other mug of brandy over to him. Under the poor lighting and his cloak and wide brim of the fedora, Raoul could but glimpse only the white of Erik's mask. He gulped, not really knowing the reason for following Erik. It was instinct, he told himself. Instinct of tailing this danger for years, for the sake of Christine…

"Tell me," the blonde croaked. "Why would you do such a thing as to save me?"

"It was unfortunate, Monsieur. I had intended but to speak to you, not to kill him." Saying thus, Erik gave a wry grin. "However, think it nothing at all for yourself as I did it for Christine. Likewise, this chitchat with you is for her. As you probably know…I am the Comte de Changy."

Nadir lets out a gasp, and Erik scowls at him. Shooing his friend away momentarily, he sinks back into the seat, well maintained despite the seedy background of the establishment itself.

"That I know." Raoul manages in a strangled gasp. "So, you are here to claim your title then?" He maintains the façade of formality, seeing how this man, this monster, this thing has calmed himself to speak to him! Not to mention that if not for this man, he would be rolling in his grave. Yet, Erik merely shakes his head.

"I but ask that you keep this matter completely silent. And also…" he continues, pulling out a small daguerrotype and fingering it lovingly, "that you never have any more contact with my wife. Do I make myself clear?"

"You—" Raoul starts, the anger in his eyes evident. Erik but gives a placid expression to the Vicomte's heated one, smirking very slightly

"Accept my terms, monsieur. It is but for the best of both of us."

Raoul shakes his head angrily, hands reaching out to strike Erik. Effortlessly, the hands are batted aside, and the blue eyed gaze of the heartbroken gazes into much older, and much more dangerous eyes that glitter with animalistic ferocity.

"You know nothing about her, Monsieur le Vicomte, not like I do. So I pray that you cease and desist all your wishes to sabotage my marriage, not to mention your foolish thoughts. You may consider me your rival, but all this while you have never considered Christine for who she was. All this while it was Little Lotte, Little Lotte your childhood sweetheart. And the exact words she used of you were that she THOUGHT, she but only thought you as her childhood sweetheart. So let her go. Let her make her choice."

"At least I'm not some accursed demon with a half face that stalks her behind mirrors." Raoul spat, although he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

"Do you really think so?" Erik retaliated, his voice laced with poison. "Be gone, Monsieur. I give you three days to think it over, and be noted, should you accept my offer I will bestow upon you the title of Comte, as well as other riches." The mask seemed to glow with a ethereal light as Erik fixated his cold gaze on Raoul's own faltering one, watching as the Vicomte retrieved his gloves that he had unknowingly removed and left on the table, striding across the floor to exit as if all of Hell was after him. And perhaps they were, with Erik's intelligent greenish-golden orbs following the retreating figure out into the night.

Christine squirmed in her chair, soon tiring of the chat with Madame Giry and Meg. Already, not even two hours into her conversations with them and she longed for the welcoming arms of her dark husband! Suggesting that they take a turn about the house, she rose from her seat to walk with them, hoping that somehow, she would find Erik. Where was her? It was most certainly mysterious. Already the evening had begun to set in, the sun falling to embrace the horizon with a passion she longed to feel from her beloved. She gave a small sigh, feigning weariness as an excuse to get away, when in actual fact she wanted to be left alone with her thoughts. Madame Giry couldn't fault the girl after all; she had been as such since she had even entered the Populaire, her head in the clouds with the tales of the Angel of Music. Since she was about a wee girl of ten, her heart had belonged to an angel, be it a man as now he was or a figment of the child's imagination.

Christine curled up in a ball on her bed, the bed she shared with Erik, letting the shell of the phoenix encase her. Winding up the music box, she watched the monkey with its fine Persian robes and the all-knowing gaze, as the song she so knew sung her to her lonely sleep.

_Masquerade_

_Paper faces on parade_

_Hide your face so the world will never find you…_

Christine rolled over in the bed, smashing almost instantly into a hard wall. Sleepily, she rubbed her eyes, barely croaking out Erik's name. He lay on his side, facing away from her, shirtless that his cruel scars were bared to her. Burying her face in his back, she nuzzled it, remembering his exotic scent, the spice of it all. She gently wrapped her legs around his form, clinging to him like a bear as she rested herself against him wholly, having missed him the evening before. Feeling thirsty and seeing that Erik was clearly in deep sleep, she rolled over, slowly getting out of bed to get a glass of water, taking the singular candle on the dressing table. As she walked down the steps, she bit her lip to stifle a soft gasp, a mass of bloodied white ruffled shirt lay at her feet, and beside it was Erik's coat. In the darkness barely lit by the candle, she could make out dark patches on the coat, and smelt the iron in the air from the garment in her hands. A pair of deep brown eyes suddenly was hovering over her, and a kindly and soft voice instructing her to drop the coat. Frightened, Christine did as she was told and fled to the kitchen, muttering a prayer frantically. She snuffed out the candle with trembling hands and replaced it with another longer one, only to meet those kindly brown eyes again. Realization struck her as she recognized Nadir, and it was only then she set down the candle after lighting the kitchen and followed the man, peppering him with questions about Erik. Where did they go? What happened? Was Erik alright? Tears sprang to her eyes at the thought of her beloved Angel and husband being on the receiving end of any harm, even if he did deserve it. But no! He would not be deserving of any harm! He had promised her not to kill, not to get into these scruples again, hadn't he? And he was of the light now! Except, it was to be admitted that at times, a rein would need to be put on him to prevent him from returning to the darkness… Frustrated with Nadir's terse and uninformative replies, she snatched the candle and lit it once more, storming up the steps to find Erik, whom she hoped WAS the man in her bed, and not a farce nor a dummy….

* * *

And that is it. Another cliffie! :3

/runs happily


	18. For the Sins Which Are Yours

Wow, I dropped off the grid for 11 days LoL-ing and doing my Project Work...OTL I'm so sorry :P Thank you Not A Ghost 3, TNP and KitKat (and all other previous reviewers of Everyonedeserveslove, Hugabouv, Grandma Paula and any anon guests etc) for making 55 reviews for this humble piece of lousy lol

I love writing this-I still do, but ahhh schoolwork, cosplay etc really eats up a lot A LOT of my time T.T Y-yeah I cosplay / shot

I sincerely promise not to die for so long again.

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Chapter 18

You're an idealist, and I pity you as I would the village idiot.

Stanley Kubrick

Erik was jolted awake to the force of the small frame of his wife pummeling him like a child with her tiny fists, and a look of worry in her eyes.

"Erik de Changy!" she cried, "Where did you go just now? I demand to know! Are you sick? Are you well? Did you get hurt? Whose blood has stained your hands once more?" She choked on her words, sobbing and continuing to pummel him with diminishing intensity. Her angel barely inclined his head from the bed to look at her, instead pursing his lips in a fine line which she noted, took to be as a cold, ignoring stance. Realizing the truth of it, the severity of the sin he had committed, she backed away, tripping over the bed. It was then she noticed Erik jack-knife himself into a seated position to look at her, with eyes smoldering. She tore her gaze from his as she knelt at the foot of her bed, no, their bed and began to pray quietly.

"So then, you've decided." He ventured cryptically.

"Decided what, monsieur? How can I decide? I thought…"

"You thought?" Erik's teeth gritted in frustration, lips peeling back in a scowl and a sneer.

"Erik, don't mistake me, please…Just tell me who it was."

"Does it change anything, Christine? Does it even?" he spoke, his voice wavering and dangerously low. She bit her lip, thinking deeply before she slowly shook her head.

"It matters not who you killed, Erik, even if he was the most heinous sinner to walk this earth you should not have done so to end his life!"

"So you would rather that man kill your husband then," he deadpanned callously, rising slowly out of the shell bed, his figure towering over her.

"No! Erik—" she started, grabbing the hem of his trousers as she ripped the bottom of the flimsy cloth off. He turned momentarily, pressing his lips furiously against hers, melting his body fluidly against hers as she fought with her scrambled senses to fight him back, to find her shreds of sanity.

"Then tell me," he said in a hoarse voice as he pulled away from her slowly, "you would give this up for that boy," he murmured, his voice growing husky as he pulled her closer, hands roaming over her form, "you would deny me forever, and you can admit that you do not love me at all," His hands traced her cleavage, her bodice, rendering her almost senseless with want as she let out a soft moan, kissing his lips back. He was sure he would give in to want there and then from the close contact of her, even if he did want to teach her a lesson so. Coming back to his sense, he pulled away, disentangling himself from the crumpled form on the floor, which looked up at him with accusing, pleading eyes tinged with want, before picking up the candle and heading to the door. "Then, I am sure mademoiselle, that will be the day I allow myself to die and you to die as well. Goodnight, Christine."

With that, Erik blew out the candle and headed down the steps, each step as soundless as the padded feet of a cat's as Christine continued to sob on the floor, each cry increasing in intensity, the tremulous song of regret.

Erik grabbed the brandy bottle, wrenching it open before he drank deeply from it, brow furrowing deeply. He was in no mood to head back to bed that night, having had that argument with Christine. Nor was he one to explain for his sins when he deemed them to be justified. Had that filthy being not laid his paws on his wife? The scene still lay fresh in his mind, with Christine being held at gunpoint and the wild eyes of the man as he leered at his wife's vulnerable state. And then he had come in the way of his plans to please his wife. Or at least, for his resolution of matters. A certainly unforgivable scum, he mused. Erik took another gulp of brandy, feeling the alcohol wash down his throat to wash his anger away. He tapped out a tune on the dining table, sitting in the dark alone as he gathered his thoughts. Was he not justified in the ways that he had handled the situation? After all, the blasted boy was in harm's way! He could have just let him die, it would not be his fault. But something had spurred him to save the damn boy, something strange he had never felt. Was he becoming soft, a result of marriage and love? Slowly he turned, to rise from his seat. He could barely make out his visage in the tall windows of the dining room, instead heading to his own hideaway again. In his den, he pulled away the soft velvet to a full length mirror, the exact replica of the one that had been in Christine's room. It had not been much trouble to create and forge the replica, after all, it was him that had designed the very mirror and the very room to be used by Christine, that it may connect the both of them. And Carlotta had interfered as the damned reigning diva. He couldn't give two hoots about that shameless chit and her ways with the fat Italian when he had burned and only wanted Christine. How he raged, how he steamed at seeing her body inhabit the very room for his Goddess of Song! He looked himself in the mirror, the ravaged side of his face to the other, as perfect as marbled statue. Touching his fingers gently to the cool glass, he pressed the deformity to it, feeling the cool silvered metal against his broken cheek. He let out a low sigh, tracing the carving of the mirror. Like the other, this hid a passage, a passage to an outhouse, an outhouse solely dedicated to music. When he had crafted this house, he placed the outhouse much as an afterthought, and although he had barely visited it, he had always kept the piano tuned via secret correspondences to tuners in the city when he was too occupied to tune it himself. Today, he tripped the switch to the passageway, sliding it shut smoothly behind him. Walking down the musty corridor, he let out a soft sneeze, humming a tune as he tried to calm himself. No matter that he was unmasked, nobody else knew the whereabouts of the outhouse. He would just seem as if he had returned to his former phantasmal state of being where he disappeared once more.

The piano in the outhouse was a lovely baby Grand, with a marbled cover and well maintained ivory keys. Erik slid open the cover, experimentally depressing a C note. Good, he noted, the piano was still tuned. He slowly picked out the tune in his head, a melancholic tune that slowly became a staccato piece that hardly was his feelings, a more lighthearted piece. La Cage de Cristal, a piece composed by Jacques Ibert. How had he even thought of that, he wondered, as he watched the fine stained glass fixture in this little outhouse catch the rising sunlight. The little sunlight was respite almost in this darkness he had shut himself into again. He looked up at it, the soft wings of the stained glass angel that seemed to smile at him seemed to almost remind him of Christine…the outhouse itself had been fashioned almost after the chapel, as such he could only fit a baby Grand inside. Rising from the bench as he carefully closed the lid, he slowly slipped into the trapdoor once more, and disappeared back to the house. Farmers living nearby often told their children and the many descendants to come of a haunted outhouse, which they never knew actually belonged to this Comte, that melodies of Heaven would pour forth from. They were sure that the melodies were of spectral descent, yet one could not help but listen to it. Soon, a young girl and her brother would be lost to never return, in hunt of the supernatural melodies. It was then that these tunes were considered to be cursed, and the work of the Devil. Erik, hearing these rumors, sighed. He was almost used to everyone calling him the Devil…

Erik returned to the house, slowly making his way stealthily up to their room to prevent any strange looks from the servants. He noiselessly slowly slid into their room like a shadow, watching the curled up form in the swan bed. It was then as he approached that he noticed that Christine would never be of such a small frame, and that the body looked somewhat strange. Quickly resuming his mask, he whipped off the blankets gracelessly, taking in the sight before him. This strange ragamuffin lay in his bed on their velvet sheets with her brother…he almost roared for the girl to wake, not before Christine came in with a bowl of steaming chicken soup. Motioning for Erik to hush, she placed the bowl of soup on the dresser and dragged him outside, the argument of last night momentarily forgotten in the face of this new problem.

"What the hell are those children doing in our bed, Christine? Are they the result of some illicit relation? Or are they the Girys'? Tell me!" he growled lowly, looking into Christine's eyes.

"Well, they…They turned up at the door this morning, and I couldn't turn them away," she said sheepishly.

Erik blinked slowly, taking in the information. How had these strange children found their house? Had he not hidden it well enough? Perhaps…he sighed to himself. He would most definitely need to pay another unwanted visit to the village today.

"Erik, you're not going to turn them away, are you? They are but barely children! They came this morning from an unknown place, but seriously, you cannot be thinking of such a cruel thing as to throw them out, can you? After all, I have promised them food and shelter at least for a week…"

"A week, Christine?" He groaned. His angel was truly an angel, so kindly to take them in. However, his mind started to worry. What if they were children from the village—would they not be missed? He shook his head, slowly walking down the steps. Pulling on his fedora and cape, he set out to the village with Nadir and Darius.

"Those children…where did they come from?" Erik softly asked Nadir, so as not to draw any attention. They were walking slowly down the streets, attempting to act like normal people, but the fact that the motley crew of a hatted man and two olive skinned Persians were drawing much more attention than they actually wanted to. People had started to whisper, and Erik's acute hearing picked up snatches of demon, devil and Lucifer. One other thing interested him though—the mention of missing children. Missing children were a common occurrence, but the description of the missing children piqued his interest. Almost instantly, Erik made a beeline to the shop near the man that was talking.

Silently, Erik pretended to be busy with choosing fruits, closely listening to the other man speak. His mask inclined slightly as the other man spoke in a more agitated tone. Almost as if he seemed to be complaining about his children being stolen. Perhaps they were his children, Erik would never know. Tossing the oranges to a surprised Nadir and Darius to handle, he swiftly gathered his cape and senses to follow the man. Beside him walked a woman, petite and small, her shawl fluttering in the wind. He assumed almost instantly that they were husband and wife. As the couple walked on, a small boy with his face dirty and grimy dashed past them as Erik heard the fearful shouts of thief ringing in his ears. He caught the boy roughly by the collar of his shirt, prising the wallet from the pair of small hands. The boy took a look at the eyes of Erik glittering dangerously at him from under the wide brim of the fedora and fled. It all seemed to play in his favor again, almost like an orchestra as he walked over to the couple to return the wallet to them. Grateful, the woman looked up to him with teary eyes and in thanks while the man spat disgracefully on the floor, glaring at her.

"Thank ye, kind sir! What would I have done if ye weren't passin', wouldn't know." The words that he heard from the woman's mouth were simple and crude, Erik could easily assume that the man had married a foreigner or this woman was ill-educated. Or she was a prostitute. The ring-less, dirt caked fingers of the woman seemed to confirm that fact, as the man hurried her along, not before she bobbed a lame curtsy to Erik, smiling at him with a pasty face caked with makeup.

"No thanks needed. I could not help but overhear though, that this man here seems to have lost his children?" Erik snapped at the man, not one for niceties at all with these sorts of men. The portly man looked up at this masked man, his face paling slightly as he coughed, attempting to gather himself and make himself a tad bit more self-important. He attempted a pathetic attempt of a polite smile, grating his teeth together.

"Why do you ask, sir, I don't really think it's of much use?"

"And what if I had them?"

"Very simply, I'd accuse you of kidnapping," he said, adjusting his waistcoat and smirking. "I am a Baron. Don't trifle with me."

Erik stifled an amused growl that seemed to challenge the man.

"Do you really think I would stoop as low as that to kidnap your children?" His voice had become dangerously low, and yet hypnotically melodious all at once. The man stumbled backwards, stammering.

"O-of course not. It was but a joke, sir."

"Very well, follow me."

The man obediently complied, the whore having taken to her heels after he palmed her some money. Erik himself however, stalked off to the darkness again, staying in the shadows while Nadir slowly led the stout man to the manor. Erik scowled to himself, thinking deeply. How could anyone be such a imbecile as to leave their children as such? Not to mention he had been cavorting with all sorts of random women in the brothels. Clenching his fists and unclenching them, he almost felt pity for the mother of the children. And almost instantly, his mind wandered to Christine. Would she ever have to be put in such a situation? Maybe Nadir had been right about his marriage. Whirlwind marriages would not be suited to such an innocent, fragile child…he sighed, feeling the worry slowly slip into the very depths of his soul…a vision of sorts was formed in his mind, the reminders of the argument they had, and her crumpled form on the floor. Except, this time, she had children in her hand. And the accusing eyes burned into the very core of his being, and he shuddered from the thought, walking further into the shadows again to hide his emotions. How could he predict the very being he was to be in the future? As much as his love for her seemed to consume him and flow in his veins, he was afraid that the fire would be doused, especially through those indelible headaches named Raoul de Changy. In two days, the choice would be made, and he seemed to count down to it, to eternally ridding himself of that thorn in his side. No longer seeing the man and Nadir in his sight of view, Erik hastened his pace back to the manor.

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Wahahaha I had to continue the angst. Nah, it I think I'll throw in a bit more Raoul de Foppy in the new few chapters for a bit more poignancy and all, not to mention more angst and drama and romance and eh, who knows, I may give you a few fluff and E/C moments after as a reward...

The Erik in my head, if you would KINDLY stop demanding it...Okay okay okay. Just don't Punjab me if it's not up to your standards k. Sigh. Erik demanded the fluff and smut.

/throws hands up in frustration

I want to antagonize the readers a bit more! What's wrong with that? EEEEEKKK! Christine! Christine save me! Erik wants to Punjab me Imsorryimsorryiwillwritefluffandsmut

-end transmission-

Erik: Your authoress ran away. I shall happily write the rest of this fic.

Authoress: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! It's mineeeee! /attack on Erik(Shingeki no Erik...), tumbles unglamourously to the floor stopping him.

:-P why did I type all that retardism. Eh, until next time my lovelies! Ja ne~


	19. What Answer Can I Give?

Sigh, I think I would need to update these all faster-and I've less tine to write, my results are crap and as such, I've a lot of shit happening in my life now. I think if IF IF I don't finish this story by 5 November when my Project Work ends or something I may drop this story. I think I can write it to its finish, the thing is that I have plans for the children, but they aren't clear. And Raoul will be resolved in a few chapters or so. Although I feel like just leaving loopholes about the Baron and his children, they being minor characters and the like l0l. If I drop it-does anyone want to adopt it? I can't bear to leave it like this though...

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Chapter 19

"When he shall die,  
Take him and cut him out in little stars,  
And he will make the face of heaven so fine  
That all the world will be in love with night  
And pay no worship to the garish sun."  
― William Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_

Christine toyed with the idea of letting the children into one of the music rooms to let them have a bit of fun. Strangely enough, even though they both had been married, the idea of children was still but a taboo in this household, owing to Erik being stubbornly held on his firm conviction that any child that he sired would have the same misfortune as him. As such, there had been no playrooms nor any room considered to be a playroom or nursery for the child. Now saddled with the two children awake, Christine didn't know what to do, in fact she found herself almost at a loss. The ideas Madame Giry had suggested as to the upbringing of these two children or even caring for them for a week brought horrified glances from Meg herself, even if she had undergone such harsh upbringing. As a mother, Madame Giry had not spared the rod and put Meg's nose to the grindstone in learning ballet, and she had suggested that Christine do something as such for the two children, even if they were but village rats. Meg had given a scandalized, reproving gasp to her mother, to which the both of them dissolved in a fit of giggles and Madame Giry had sighed, leaving Christine to her own devices. It had been only a while but the children had learnt their place with Madame Giry's heavy cane. And now that she and Meg had gone out shopping, Christine could almost yank her hair out at handling these two children. They had almost set to exploring after Madame had left, and Christine had to chase after them with bribes of candy and jujubes, which they apparently loved. Mopping her brow, she glared at them in mock ire, her lips twitching at their antics of trying to pinch each other and other childish acts.

"You know, I was really surprised to find you all here this morning," she said with a slight smile. "Where did you all come from?"

"Village," the elder one replied. She was a young girl of about twelve or thirteen by Christine's reckoning, and a pretty one at that, with large, wide eyes that were set prettily in her face, and a button nose that seemed to scream "poke me!" Her black hair fell in short, unloved strands around her face, giving her a very messy look as she grinned up at the young woman with a childish smile that would melt the coldest of hearts. "We've 'erd the tales, you see, of a ghostly music that comes from 'round here so, me little brother and I, I sez to him, let's go find it and he's like okay an we end up here trying to find it. Was it you, Madame? 'Twas such pretty music!" Christine blinked, surely they must have heard Erik playing, but where? She shook her head at the question and watched as the girl's face fell, but brightened up again. "But Miss, can ye sing?"

Christine bit her lip. Yes, she could, most definitely, but without any accompaniment of sorts... She sighed and eventually nodded, motioning for them to stand. Rather than having these children wreck a home, she would rather face Erik when he found out they had invaded a music room, a holy shrine to the thing that bound them. Sitting at the piano, she played an opening chord and began to sing the song she loved since young.

_Father once spoke of an angel..._

_I used to dream he'd appear_

_Now as I sing I can sense him..._

_And I know he's here..._

_Here in this room he calls me_

_Softly, somewhere inside hiding._

_Somehow I know he's always with me,_

_He the unseen genius..._

A draft of wind entered the room as Christine felt the presence of another and knew they were no longer alone any more...

"Erik!" she cried out happily, half running to embrace him. He slowly pushed her away reluctantly, motioning to the children. Her eyes flickered towards them and then back to him, questioningly. He nodded, pointing slightly towards the outside. Christine noticed as the girl's eyes slowly showed a mixture of fear, hurt and then eventually betrayal. And then she bolted.

Erik was the first to react, almost grabbing the child a bit too roughly as he pulled her over and she continued to struggle wildly, kicking him and screaming. Christine instantly flew to the girl's side, bringing her brother as she hushed the girl with a soft, crooning and clicking sound. The girl choked back another sob as Christine looked up at Erik with pleading eyes, mouthing no. And that as when they turned to face the door, where another man was standing, chewing his cigarette furiously, about to light it.

"If you would care not to light that disgusting thing in my house, monsieur," Erik said tersely, glaring at him. The man had just focused his beady eyes on the little girl in Erik's grasp, reaching out his stubby fingers to her.

"Come to papa, child. Come, come!" he clapped his hands, as if talking to a baby. When she shook her head, he took on a harsher tone, glaring at her.

"Damn you child! Just come!" And still, she didn't. As the process played itself out a few more times, the man's patience frayed, not that he had much anyway. He lunged forward, only to be blocked by Christine.

"Monsieur, I beg of you! Do not treat a child as such, she doesn't deserve it. She will return to you of her own accord, if she wishes to. You have been hardly fair nor nice to her, it seems, and you cannot hope to blame her if she does not wish to return. Likewise for her brother." Erik held back a cry of applause as Christine stood her ground against the portly little man, silently applauding her instead from his head.

Brava, brava, bravissima…

The Baron fiddled with his moustache, seemingly thinking. He chewed the end of his cigarette again, sucking on it.

"Very well. Keep them, they are but a burden to me. I don't care about them if they be here or where, just make sure that when I call for them they are delivered."

Christine opened her mouth to speak against the vile man, but closed it decidedly when Erik motioned for her to do so as he nodded slowly at the Baron, but the cleft in his brow spoke otherwise. Damnable man! He was ten times worse than the bloody fop, Erik decided instantly. Even as an assassin or the dark Phantom, Erik sure had more heart than this callous beast. He had not even seen an inkling that this man was to pay any fees for their childcare, nor did he look like he was going to. All he did was to keep chewing on his disgusting fat cigar and flick his lighter or fiddle with his moustache. The nonchalance that permeated the air from the figure in front of his made both him and Christine see red at the fact that one could have such manners at them. And yet he controlled himself for his dear wife's sake. How he longed to reach his fingers and his hands out to the damned beast and throttle him, or best even send one of his treasured lassos around this bull's neck. One single stroke, and he would have paid for his sins. Already by then Erik had caught the man attempting to light his cigar more than once even after he had asked for him not to. Erik grimaced in frustration as he repeated his plea for the man not to light the cigarette. Didn't he know that lungs of singers and musicians had to remain as pure as possible? And here he stood, his portly being in Erik's home, the Kingdom of Music, with such blatant disrespect as he fiddled with the very object that Erik immensely disliked. As the Baron took his sweet time looking around at the house from where he stood, Erik almost felt an uncontrollable urge to just shoo him out. As his other servants and house inhabitants apparently thought too, as they glared at him with icily polite gazes. Thankfully, the man had some semblance of a conscience and the like to understand that he was not wanted, so blustering away as was his custom, that disgusting fool, Erik did not hesitate to note, he walked out, as pompous as ever, almost peacock like. Erik hastily closed the door, slightly louder than politely after him. It was then he looked down at the two children that were now standing before him with wide eyes, almost in tears.

"Thank you Mister Mask!" the little girl cried, hugging him with such force that Erik felt a whoosh of breath exit his body. He looked down at the girl with an expressionless face, before his gaze turned to Christine. Help me? his face seemed to say, as she giggled softly. Christine moved over to extricate the girl and her brother from her husband; his expression was but priceless as she watched the girl skipping freely about their house, free of her oppressive father. She remembered the idles of youth as she remembered Scandinavia and her travels across the wide land, slowly immersing herself in a world that was but her and her father all over again. The lilt of the violin and its melodies filled her ears, and the colorful lights of the carnivals and the places they performed in, and the gentle tinkling of the money as it sloshed about in her father's violin case as he collected it and kept his violin. And she could almost smell the sea salt again, the fresh, salty air of the deep blue sea as she looked across to the wide expanse of nothingness and wondered to her young self about life, as she wondered about the world. And her father's kindly smile as he lifted her from her feet and she giggled, spun about in his warm embrace and his never ending smile that spread around the globe like his fame and music, the precious tunes she held dear to herself. She then realized only after a while, that she had been humming, and the two children were at her feet, giving her a mesmerized gaze.

"Madame! Tis beautiful…" the little girl started, as her brother clapped happily. They giggled, singing a little ditty to her tune.

_Wand'rin about the plain plain lands_

_I know I want a toy_

_Hey, you are my friend,_

_So will you share my joy?_

Singing as such, the girl skipped about, singing the song she seemed to have composed lyrics for again and again, poking her brother playfully in the cheek. Without a care in the world, the little girl seemed almost angelic. Like you, Erik murmured at Christine, leaving her with an indelible pink tinge on her cheeks. She turned to him, smiling softly.

"Do you agree to a child then?" she said, a smug smile on her lips.

"Perhaps, but if they turned out like me?"

"Then I would love them all the more, until the end of life. And I will make sure everyone loves them as much as I do."

Erik blinked, trying to think of a rational counter to her words in all. How could one stir such emotions in him with one simple sentence? What he thought was but playing and the like had turned into but a whirlwind of emotions that rocked him, threatening to drown him in the sea of lost tears as a child.

Heavens above, what was this innocent woman and what witchcraft that she held such powers over him?

Raoul stood above the mirror in the room which was spotless and relatively without that annoying assassin. He stooped to the floor, observing the speckles of blood in the cracks that Erik had not removed, still thinking about the conversation that had been but a night or so ago. He had but three days. Would he stay and fight? Should he stay and fight? Or would he be but another "victim" of sorts, to bow to the mighty Phantom of the Opera and give in to his demands? He still remembered Christine's words on the roof. After they had sang, and he had kissed her. But he remembered. How she had removed her lips all too fast, and told him to order his horses, to protect her. Was he but a knight to her, a knight in shining armor to protect her? And her bloody, damnable husband? Raoul had almost but come to a realization that he was naught but a protector to keep them safe, and perhaps this was but the strings of fate that wove his story into theirs as their servant, knight and priest, as was the Girys.

_Order your fine horses,_

_Be with them at the door…_

_And soon, you'll be beside me._

_You'll hold me and you'll hide me…_

Hide her? From what? Had she not mentioned that the Phantom had eyes everywhere? Maybe, maybe, he had hope against his adversary, against his rival. Maybe, he could win Christine back…but would she want him?

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Please review, it'll make me write. :P In other news thank you for 1.2k views on my first chapter-wow, has it only been slightly over a month?


	20. Each Night, Each Morning

HI I'M SORRY FOR DYING SO LONG.

More apologies and explainations at the end.

This chapter deserves the M rating.

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Chapter Twenty

Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky.  
Rabindranath Tagore

When the children had been playing in the room and had gone to bed, Christine then spun on Erik, they still had unfinished business. At first, the children had been too excited to sleep, seeing how the bed was fluffy beyond belief. With the help of Madame Giry's coaxing and Erik's violin, Christine had finally put them to sleep,

"Erik." She said, unblinkingly. "Now, speak."

"Do you still harp on that incident? I thought you understood my rationale." he bit back, acerbically. She nodded, but looked up to him with a tad bit of resignation. Drawing closer to him, she gave a small sigh. Her eyes focused on him as he gently caressed her hair lovingly, breathing in its scent. Leaning down, he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, sighing too. Broken, he wrapped her in his arms, feeling almost as if she would disappear with the wind. Erik felt her again, he wraith-like form buffeted by the chills that was the house late at night. He had hurt his Christine, his beautiful wife, all in his want to please her. Mournfully, he looked into her eyes again, beseeching his dearest wife as if in their silent way of making amends. As they walked up the stairs together, their bodies moved as one, as a fluid motion that was but the both of them together alone. His eyes glittered lovingly as the apologetic motions of kisses grew more heated and more frequent, their contact drowning the both of them in love.

Christine stared deeply into Erik's eyes, softly moaning as he licked her lips. As they entered their room, Christine let herself topple onto the bed, Erik above her, letting out a deep sigh as she collapsed into the bed. She reached up to cup Erik's jaw, placing a soft kiss on it.

"What are you instigating, little girl?" he murmured, laughing softly.

"I missed you…and I want us to have a child," she replied, whispering the last bit, wrapping her arms around him as she let out a giddy laugh, pulling him closer. He let out a contented sigh, conceding to her as he returned the favor of a kiss.

"Mm." Christine slid her hands down his back, pulling the shirt out of the waistband of his pants bit by bit. Emboldened by her act, Erik flipped her over such that she was pinned underneath him, and she let out a slight gasp at the swift movement.

"This," he said in a low growl, pulling at her chemise, "comes off."

"Oh," was all Christine managed as he ripped the flimsy cloth in two, pulling it off her body. The cool air washed over her body, heating it as she felt the evidence of her arousal beginning to pool between her legs. Christine let out a soft gasp as Erik lovingly caressed her breast with his wicked tongue, taking the milky globe whole in his mouth. She felt the strained material of his pants against her naked legs as he continued suckling her breast, gently stroking her face lovingly. She let out a low moan, approving of his unbridled want of her. Reaching down to his mask, she yanked it slightly and let his whole getup tumble off, wig and mask and all. Feeling the uneven planes of his deformity caress her collarbones, she blushed, wrapping her legs around his body, wriggling underneath his ministrations.

"Er-ik!" she gasped, as his body moved up to lick a particularly sensitive spot behind her ear. He ignored her cries however, and continued to lick his trail down his wife's precious body, tongue flicking out to tease her hardened areolas or to swirl in ber belly button, making her writhe in delight underneath him. Ungracefully, she yanked the white shirt from him, tearing it as he had done to her chemise. Amused, he looked up at her with a growing fire in his eyes, letting out a low growl as her hips ground up into his well toned body, goading him into his growing want for her. She let out a soft mewl of delight as her hands found him in the waistband of his pants, sliding the obstructive material out of the way, cupping his hardened member in her small hands. Slowly, she moved, experimentally, up and down the engorged shaft as she teased the tip with her fingernail, flicking it as she felt the precum cover her small, white fingers. Erik let out a low moan, eyes hooded as he gazed at her.

"You play with fire, mademoiselle."

"So burn me, Erik! I burn for you…" Christine said, bending her head to taste him. Her soft mass of curls fell over Erik's shaft, leaving feather light touches over it. Erik gasped, almost wanting to scream. Christine's soft touches on him made him almost want to release from the new sensations she brought to him.

"Christine…" he growled, capturing her attention, as he roughly brought her lips to meet his. The kisses they shared had never been with such all consuming passion nor fire, as he ran his hands over the body in his arms, hearing her delightful moans as they connected in their hands and lips. Her hands wrapped around his neck as she groaned, feeling his kisses on her collarbone. Their movements almost frenzied, she pulled and he gave, he demanded and she succumbed, as their want engulfed them. And yet, they still weren't done. Erik's form pressed into Christine as she gave a small squeak, wrapping her legs around him, his member splitting her open, but never entering her. Their bodies moved fluidly as one, the sinful foreplay they engaged in as they would soon conjoin together as the married couple they were again. Erik heaved himself off Christine with reluctance, even if it was to be for the slightest moment. Slowly, they moved, perfectly as if they were actors who had practiced their movements a hundred times, but with the base, carnal instinct of want, as woman guided man into her, joining them in a smooth movement. Filled, and the hunger satiated for the barest of moments, she let out a satisfied groan as he, before the fire burned in their abdomens with a force greater than ever. If eyes were the window to a person's soul, then the fire would have burned them both to blindness as their gazes fixated on each other hungrily and Erik began to move in her.

"You are mine, Christine Daae."

She could only moan in reply as he smothered her with kisses and showered her body with more. As her eyes closed and rolled into the back of her head, all she could think of was the pleasure that was him. Instinctively, she bucked up into him, moving along to the rhythm. His eyes only focused on the woman before him, and his senses on the way they both melded together. Christine's voice soared above the lower register of his grunts, her gentle sighs and moans goading him on to pick up the pace.

"Erik!" she cried, as he grabbed her hands, manacles around them as she felt the restraints on them. He smirked, bucking into her with wild abandon as he watched the expressions of surprise and then pleasure as he rocked into her body. Christine felt the fire burn deep in her loins, her belly as he released her hands eventually, and slowly, she felt the coil in her belly begin to tense up, and she cried his name, falling off the edge of pleasure as he did, feeling her tighten around his engorged member, leaving them both breathless. With half lidded eyes, Erik regarded his wife, who faced him with her own set of beautifully entrancing eyes.

"I love you," he murmured, slowly slipping under the covers with her and pulling the coverlet over, that they would rest, in a night as peaceful as twelve cannons firing.

Raoul ran in the rain, it falling in sheets around his face. He could not wait any longer, no he would not! Gritting his teeth, he ran on, not even bothering to hire any hansom cab whatsoever. How would you describe even a place as hidden as that? And yet that monster seemed to get about from there to civilization so easily! Damn him, how long had it been since Christine had seen the sunlight? In the conversation he had with Erik, he realized soon that he had made no question about Christine's happiness, not really, directly. How could he question her choice? Still, to him, she was his Angel, his loved one. Tears mingled with the rain, failing to keep his emotions in check, much like a chain of pearls, broken as the promises they had made one summer. But then again, he asked, how will summer ever be constant? Nothing lived forever. Could he hope that the love, was it even love? No! It could not be love to such a monster, Raoul reasoned. He sneezed, soaked to the bone. Just then, he reached the outhouse, where it was locked. Curse that man and his need for privacy! Raoul swore, as he slumped wearily against the cold marble. His thoughts were all but with Christine. In dreams, she was there, but she always distanced herself from him. Why, Christine, why? He screamed and banged against the cold confines of his mind, sobbing.

When he awoke, he found himself draped on a piano stool, and a pair of intense green eyes watched him from the darkness. It glittered as it glowed, and it scared him half to death.

"Have you made your choice then?" a voice cut acerbically through the blinding darkness. It seemed disembodied, as if the chair spoke to him! Raoul trembled involuntarily, and the chair all but seemed to give a smug laugh. Damn him and his ability to see in the dark like the demon he was! Unlike Raoul, who had lived a life in the light, Erik knew the darkness since he was a child. Brought up in that infernal hellhole, abandoned to the dark forever, he knew each shadow like his friend. Raoul glanced up at the dancing green eyes that hovered over him.

"I came here for one purpose. To tell you…"

"Yes."

"No. I won't leave Christine to the likes of you!" Raoul scrambled backward, even though he wanted to stand his ground, but the dark was not his element. He could not fight, not in this dark. Best to drag the monster out into the light, best to shame him, where he would flee, he thought. Raoul gritted his teeth and groped in the dark for the door.

Damn! He swore, as a firm hand grabbed him from the back and he cried out in pain, writhing.

"I recommend we have another talk, Monsieur. Clearly you did not understand that although I presented you with a choice, it was crystal clear what you should have chosen."

Raoul bit his tongue—did he have a choice even? All he could manage was a weak very well, before the world swam before his eyes and he succumbed to the darkness he fought against so, once more.

Erik turned over in the bed. Although Christine was still asleep, the incessant drips of the rain, which had turned into a thunderstorm again seemed to be a discordant chorus in his ears, far more effective than any morning calls nor alarm clocks. He frowned, pulling on his dressing gown as he decided to pay the outhouse another visit to calm his frayed nerves. Silently, he padded down the steps, one by one. Strange, he could almost make out a broken voice that sounded much like the Vicomte. His interest aroused, he hurried down the last few steps with the speed of a bobcat after its prey, leaping across the black expanse of marble before he reached the door, flipping the switch, albeit gracelessly and with a bit of fumbling due to his hurry. Who was this unwanted intruder that should invade the confines of the peace of his kingdom of Music? They would certainly not go unpunished, specially if it was that blasted boy! Erik donned a spare mask he had swiped off the table of his den, putting on his cape as well, such that he may seem imposing to the intruder, no matter how fragile they were. He opened the door to the outhouse, the singular door that led to the outer world, one in marble, unlike the stained glass that covered the other walls of the little room. Seeing a form slumped over, he instantly recognized it as the damnable fop, and dragged him in, cringing at the fact that he had now caused the marble flooring to be extremely slippery, not to mention the mud that covered it. Erik sighed, propping him up against the piano stool before repositioning him to sit nicely on the stool. The form slumped involuntarily, and Erik turned away, irritated at the pathetic excuse of a brother. Dragging a chair meant exclusively for guests should he ever turn this into a performance space, he sat and waited, waited for the boy to awake.

When he should awake though, it was only an hour later or so by Erik's reckoning. He awoke abruptly, as Erik had begun to stir from his post of watching him, wanting to play the Surprise Symphony to wake the slumbering man. Quickly, Erik resumed his seat, speaking to the boy.

"Have you made your choice then?" he spat, not wishing for the slightest bit of formalities with this damn fledgling. Certainly, he had not come all the way to give the right answer that Erik wanted, Erik was sure of that. After all, he looked as if he had ran, **RAN** in the rain just to get there! If not for a show of gallantry and fight, then what not? Erik projected his voice neatly to the chair, watching in amusement as Raoul jumped.

"I came here for one purpose. To tell you…"

Ah, the dumb fish spoke, Erik mused, having seen his gaping mouth and bulging eyes, instantly likening it to the fish he saw in the market but days ago.

"Yes?" Erik continued. Perhaps the boy would see reason.

"No."

**Damn him!**

"I won't leave Christine to the likes of you!"

Erik rose to strike the boy, holding back only as he ran to the door, a futile attempt to escape.

"I recommend we have another talk, Monsieur. Clearly you did not understand that although I presented you with a choice, it was crystal clear what you should have chosen."

All he saw was Raoul's fearful eyes as the boy blacked out again.

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I feel sick still D; I probably will wrap this up soon having lost the muse sort of for writing altogether, having never really recovered after promos :(

I'm sorry if the ending may feel abrupt, but I swear I'm leaving some loose ends IN CASE I happen to take up this story again and write a sequel-of which you all probably won't see me for about a year or so-having major A levels next year OTL

I'm having my A level Project Work Oral Presentation tomorrow and am feeling a wreck, not to mention I have to write another document tonight.

Sometimes, I want to be horrible and pepper my sentences with "FUCK IT."

But I shall not :D and continue the masquerade of the nice authoress, although I have aliases online that are as dark and as sarcastic as the Phantom. Would you like to tangle with them? Sigh, been editing slides to the millimeter today. Since 11am. All the way until 6pm. Wheeee. And THAT idiot in my class who received the brunt of my sarcasm today, I'm not sorry.

In fact, I hope you die for stressing me further. :D


	21. It's Over Now

My second post in a few days because I almost have no way to access the comp anymore :'D Well, at least I've resolved something, yet left it hanging. Ohoho. This is gonna end REALLY soon, and i'm so sorry I think there will only be a chapter or two more after this, and it'll end happily, no timeskips, nothing! I intend to write a sequel some day for this, and I don't think it'll up anytime soon, so sorry about that :-( Need to get back my muse, sigh.(Wrote this intro 6.11.13)

* * *

Chapter Twenty-one

Don't cry because it's over; smile because it happened.

-Dr. Seuss

Raoul sat across Erik, and both faces were locked in emotionless masks, glaring at each other. Neither was willing to bend, nor care for that matter. Sullenly, Raoul picked up the cup of tea offered to him, sipping it as he picked up a sugar cube, dropping it in as he poured the milk in silence. Stirring the tea slowly, he watched the other man, with face locked in a mask equally as emotionless as his, the only semblance of humankind in these being his darkly glinting eyes which regarded his every move coldly. Erik gripped the seat with such force he felt that he could snap it, as he watched the insufferable fop cross his legs and uncross them before rising to take a turn about the room. Neither man spoke, but both knew of the words to come. Erik blinked slowly, watching the Vicomte's form as it swept across the room like a woman, yet with the angular forms of a man, pacing the floor. He picked up his own cup of tea, sipping it slowly. Tea, for this Phantasmal being, was like his persona, black as night as he drank in the coppery liquid, not one to break the pregnant silence. He frowned at the teacup as he regarded his own reflection with a small inwardly directed sigh, blinking at the ripples forming on the otherwise calm surface.

Tension hung in the air, tighter than taut telephone wires, thicker than a tree trunk, and all ready to snap and unleash it's dark furies on both men themselves. Rising from his seat, Erik regarded the Vicomte again from the shadows, neither had spoken yet. Yet electric shot through the air as both pairs of eyes met in an electrifying death gaze of a thousand daggers ready to be flung. With the grace of a feline and the immense strength of a bear, Raoul would be no match for Erik in his dark domain, yet with his agility and the swordsmanship skills he had, Raoul was sure he faced a chance, after all, had he not almost killed the beast in the cemetery? Erik spun on his heel, the both circling as if in a death duel of the flamenco, to the unknown rhythm as both glared at each other, daring the other to speak. As Erik's parched lips opened to speak, he heard the boy's voice cut through the air, mingling together with his voice in a jumbled "Ah."

Ever the polite bastard, Erik noted, Raoul instantly offered to let him speak first. Very well, to hell with polite society, Erik thought. They were dealing with matters far worse than society itself now, were they not?

"I gave you no choice, admittedly, even if it to be polite whatsoever it did present itself as a choice, you should have known of my expectation."

"Am I to think like a beast then?" Raoul scoffed, feeling himself gain the upper hand momentarily.

"We share the same father who so lovingly sired you too, am I correct?" Raoul bit his lip, his father was anything but loving to him, always speaking of him as an afterthought. However this damnable monster had known must have been through his illicit, dark ways for certain! Nevertheless, Raoul bit his lip and continued.

"Well, it must have been the fact that you were a result of a one night stand with someone, some damn bitch on the streets! Else, there would be no other way to explain your...deformity! And your whole being. It makes me sick to even regard you as a whole!"

"Really, monsieur, tonight is then quite the contrary. Someone dashed here in the middle of the night, in pouring rain nonetheless for nothing? Of course, you could have come to kidnap my wife, but what purpose would that serve you?"

"Of course it wouldn't be in vain to rescue her, or would it?"

Erik bit back a slew of sarcasms as he took a sip of tea slowly, sinking back into the armchair.

"Vicomte, it is no use arguing. We are brothers, as annoying as it is to acknowledge, and she is my wife. You may stay in town, for I hear that Paris is under fire from the wars. However...Anything more than a friendly wave and simple chit chat to my wife would place you in the heat of the battle, understand?" Raoul cringed at the words, considering and reconsidering. Did he even have a choice with this madman? He bit his lip, rolling the words about in his head. One advance, even a hug was prohibited. But what if Christine herself initiated it? What would Erik have to say to such a display? But he no longer knew her, as he had to admit. The years and the sorrow had changed her from the little girl with a red scarf to a sad, downtrodden and world weary woman, only to be brightened up again by her Angel of Music.

Raoul nodded meekly, turning his head away that Erik may not notice his weakness, pretending to browse through the library of books. He picked one off the shelf, flipping through it. What he noticed, was a careful journaling of every single illness or happiness whatsoever happened in the little girl's life. As much as he was repulsed by it, he had found himself writing such things away into his own diary. It was then he noticed similarly bound books beside it, and realized, as strange as the man sitting behind him was, it was best to let Christine go. His heart was pained, torn into two as he realized the utter truth and utter damnation he had placed himself in. The days of old were over, and he was but a servant to their rule. He couldn't fight anymore, he felt too weak to. The silence broke with a soft yet harsh sob from his lips, and he turned to find Erik had gone. A faint glimmer of a smile crossed his lips as he ascended up the steps he barely remembered going down and exiting the house, hearing the mellow click of a lock behind him, and the gates yawning wide open to greet him. The thunderstorm of earlier had halted into but a downpour, and the sun had not even begun to rise. His eyes closed, wishing they would open and feel this was but a dream, an endless lie. Finding that he could no longer delude himself, he stepped forth on the stone covered path, out of the gates which closed with a resounding metallic clang. Broken was the man who left that night and resigned himself to a fate, remembering the incident where Christine had rejected him to his bloody face, right in the doorway of her husband to be's home. His feet felt weary and heavy laden as he called a hansom cab to lead him to his inn, spending the night ordering drinks to his room. The floor had been littered with numerous glasses and the innkeeper had all but given up on chiding him as he quietly scribbled in his diary, reliving the care worn pages of his childhood with the chocolate haired girl. Damn him, damn him, damn that demon to his death! When he found himself hollow, he set upon himself, hitting his skin that it bruised, before laying down to sleep...a dreamless sleep haunted with the echoes of his song...

_That's all I ask of you..._

Christine woke up, the pelting rain which had begun again outside making it hard to sleep. She rose from the bed, stretching. Erik grinned smugly at her as the coverlet lay around her, and he had the clear view of her bare back from his reclining position in the bed. Turning, she smiled at him, joining her lips to his again with a small curve to her lips.

"Good morning, Erik!" she sang, snuffling her nose in the nape of his neck, breathing in his scent.

"Good morning, Christine."

After sending the blasted Vicomte off, he had returned to Christine's side. Really, night time expeditions and the like drained him more than the day! If this was to continue, he would surely follow the light instead of the call of the dark! He managed a smile at his beautiful wife, grabbing his dressing gown as she did hers, ready to start a new day together. Thankfully, Christine had been a late riser lest he had been caught out, but the girl had slept almost until noon again, waking only at around half past ten. He smirked to himself as he remembered the night before, where he had sent that boy out into the cold, bedraggled and alone again. Yet a stirring inside him that Christine would feel sympathy for the damnable creature surfaced in his mind, and he chided himself for his stupidity as he reached over to the nightstand where the candle had burned itself out over the course of the night, following her downstairs.

Raoul woke to a throbbing head for the countless time that week. Not surprising, that he had drunk at least a gallon of brandy and whiskey last night. He groaned, rolling over in the bed, which creaked under his weight. Best to get a house temporarily until Paris was safe, the last he had heard was that they had taken to murdering the nobles. He suddenly thought of his mother, left alone with the servants in the house. Perhaps, they had fled after she had passed away. It made no matter, as far as he was concerned, the only two de Changys left in this small world were him and that man. Dragging himself over to the mirror, he ran a sparse brush he had procured through his hair, considering snipping his locks, which had through the days, months and weeks gone by turned an ashen grey in fact, caked with dust and grime, although the gentle golden coloration still showed through. He remembered but a year or two ago, when he had been to the Masquerade ball, and then fleeing the Populaire with Christine in tow, and his features had certainly been nothing like how they were now then. Sinking back to the bed wearily as the sunlight filtered in, he closed the shutters, understanding almost Erik's want for the dark. The darkness seemed to comfort him, to hide him away from the prying eyes of the world as he breathed the cold staleness of the room, calling the innkeeper for another bout of room service, this time, breakfast. He shoveled the Eggs Benedict into his mouth hungrily, letting the runny yolk coat the toast the innkeeper provided with it. He licked at the drips of egg falling from the toast, flipping the bread over to coat it again. Life seemed almost an endless cycle of continued ennui, feeling the cold from the window wash over him. He felt almost like a marionette without the puppet master, one that could not move. He groaned, rising and falling to the cold ground as he made the strenuous attempt to drag himself to the window. Damn everything, just when he thought he had the upper hand would such a thing happen to him! Fairytales no longer occurred in this world, he guessed. The days of childhood were over, his parents were probably dead with Paris under fire. The knock on the door startled him, as he slurred out a lazy come in, a postman entering with a letter. Hastily, he ripped it open, finding a sheaf of papers float out.

_Monsieur de Changy,_

_I hope this finds you well. I regret to inform you of your mother, the late Madame de Changy, who perished in the fire that razed down your family home. The servants and I could not do a thing as the poor woman clung to her home and the last leg of her life. We however, managed to salvage a lock of her hair, which is enclosed. Also you may find enclosed her death certificate, and a daguerreotype of yourself, your deceased brother and your parents. There are other matters too, that you must settle, including the inheritance of the de Changy fortune, as it seems that there was the discovery of another de Changy son older than you were. It has been my pleasure serving you all these years, Master de Changy, and I do certainly miss the family with fine memories of your highbred ways. It is here that I must stop for the light grows dim, and my eyesight is nothing as it was in my days of youth. Should you wish to find me, I will be in the outskirts of Paris, near your house. I hope I will be able to see you once more, Master de Changy, as I am no longer young and my shadow lengthens, my life reaches its sunset._

_Yours truly,_

_Your humble butler, Jarven._

Hastily, Raoul shoved his possessions into a few bags, not even trunks, as he glanced at himself in the mirror. The ashen face he descried barely felt anything but old and weary, his eyebrows knitted in constant sorrow. The rain continued to fall upon the streets in sheets, as Raoul packed his meager bags into a hansom cab to take him to a ferry, back to Paris, leaving the innkeep with money. Tears streaked his once fine cheeks, now weary and forgotten, as he slowly climbed the steps into the cab.

"To the port, please."

* * *

Is this what I'm going to say be drama but

I think someone may turn me into the police

Because I wanted to change him

And if he tells the police

That I'm a terrorist

I'm screwed.

I just need comfort now.

I wrote this comfort need thing 7.11.13

I need someone to kill him. Or I need to run. And either way, because of other things, I'm terribly distressed. I already wrote the end to this, the end of sorts and I will be posting it very soon in a few days or so.

I bid you all an eternal farewell...

You all (my readers) alone can make my song take flight,

But it's over now, the Music of the Night!

Your authoress is dead to her hell!


End file.
